2ft 


J 


>         -.   ^ 

•  •  .  —     •S'*    *     * 

V 


" 


POEMS, 


BY 


JAMES    G.  PERCIVAL.    / 


NEW-YORK : 
CHARLES  WILEY,  3  WALL-STREET, 


\VM.  GRATTAN,    PRINT! R. 


1823. 


Southern  District  of  New-York, «. 

BE  IT  REMEMBERED,  That  on  the  eleventh  day  of  Novem 
ber  in  the  fortv-eighth  year  of  the  Independence  of  the  United  States 
of  America,  JAMES  G.  PERCIVAL,  of  the  said  District,  has  depo 
sited  in  this  Office,  the  title  ot  a  Book,  the  right  whereof  he  claims 
as  author  and  proprietor  in  the  words  following,  to  wit: 

"  Poems  by  James  G.  Percival." 

In  conformity  to  the  Act  of  Congress  of  the  United  States,  entitled 
"An  Act  for  the  encouragement  of  Learning,  by  securing  the  copies 
of  Maps,  Charts,  and  Books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such 
copies,  during  the  time  therein  mentioned."  And  also  to  an  Act,  en 
titled  "  An  Act,  supplementary  to  an  act,  entitled  an  Act  for  the  en 
couragement  of  Learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  Maps,  Charts, 
and  Books,  to  the  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies,  during  the 
times  therein  mentioned,  and  extending  the  benefits  thereof  to  the 
arts  of  designing,  engraving,  and  etching  historical  and  other  prints." 

JAMES  DILL, 
Cfcrfc  of  the  Southern  District  of  tfeiv-Iorlc. 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

The  Wreck,  a  Tale, 1 

Prometheus,  part  1,           ...:...,  39 

,  part  2, 97 

The  Suicide, 168 

Poetry, 191 

Love  of  Study,           .                                   197 

Heaven, 201 

A  Picture, 206 

Mental  Beauty, 209 

Mental  Harmony,      .         .         .         • 212 

Ruins, 218 

Maria,  the  Village  Girl,             223 

A  Tale,      ,...-..                  ...  233 

JSight  Watching, 238 

Pleasures  of  Childhood, 241 

Voyage  of  Life, 245 

A  Picture,  Catskill  Valley, 248 

Spirit  of  Freedom,            ...         .  251 

Home, 253 

The  Deserted  Wife 255 

Love  at  Evening, 256 

"  Silent  she  stood  before  me," 258 

Star  of  the  Pensive, 259 

"O!  there  is  bliss  in  tears," 260 

Vaucluse, -261 

Light  of  Love, 262 

Flower  of  a  Southern  Garden, 264 

Rose  of  my  Heart, 266 

The  Queen  of  Flowers, 267 

The  Spirit  of  the  Air, 269 

Catania, 270 

Sonnets,             272 

Ode  to  Music,           .........  277 

The  Judgment, 284 

Tribute  to  the  Brave, 287 

Liberty  to  Athens,             288 

Senate  of  Callimachi, 290 

Greek  Emigrant's  Swng, 292 

Ode  to  Freedom, 294 

Platonic  Bacchanal  Song, 301 

"  Here's  to  her," 303 

Dithyrambic, 306 

The  Serenade, 308 


M189262 


CONTENTS. 


Consumption, 312 

The  Houstonia  Cerulea  315 

The  Coral  Grove, 318 

The  Anemone, .         .         .  319 

"  A  Tulip  blossomed," 321 

"  I  had  found  out  a  sweet  green  spot,"  ....  323 

The  Lake  in  Vermont, 324 

The  Mermaid, 327 

The  house  of  my  Birth 329 

The  Broken  Heart,  339 

The  parting  of  William  and  Mary  341 

fl  Vanity  of  Vanities," 343 

The  Fairest  Rose  is  far  awa',  353 

The  Flower  of  the  Valley, 355 

Montevideo, 356 

"  Once  on  a  cloudless  summer  day,"         -         ....  357 

"  My  heart  too  firmly  trusted,"          .  ....  358 

To  Seneca  Lake, .  359 

«  How  beautiful  is  Night,"  361 

11  Often  when  at  night  delaying," 363 

gong — "  O  !  pure  is  the  wind," 364 

«<  O  !  had  I  the  wings  of  a  swallow," 367 

The  Land  of  the  Blest, 368 

Retrospection, 370 

Calm  at  Sea, t  372 

"  My  heart  was  a  mirror," 373 

"  O  !  now's  the  hour," 374 

"  O  !  wilt  thou  go  with  me,  love," 376 

"  Here  the  air  is  sweet," 378 

The  Wandering  Spirit, 379 

Farewell  to  my  Lyre, 381 

Despondency     ..........  383 

Anacreontics, 385 

Horatian,  ........         •         .  388 

The  Paphian  Doves,          ...  ....  388 

Fragments  of  a  Poem  on  the  Incas,  .....  391 


THE   WRECK, 


A  TALE, 


JT  WAS  a  calm  summer  evening — on  the  sea 
Spread  out  a  perfect  mirror,  there  was  seen, 
In  the  blue  hazy  distance,  one  white  sail, 
That  caught  the  eye  of  hope  and  love.     She  came, 
When  her  light  task  was  ended,  to  the  brow 
Of  a  commanding  precipice,  that  hung 
Its  dark  wall  o'er  the  waters.     By  the  staff, 
On  which  a  flag  was  hoisted,  she  sat  down 
In  the  red  sun-light,  which,  to  all  below, 
Gave  a  deep  tincture  to  the  towering  cliff, 
And  the  loose  folds,  that  tremulously  waved 
In  the  scarce-breathing  sea-wind,  and  the  snow 
Of  her  own  tender  paleness.     She  had  caught 
The  sail  from  the  lone  cottage  of  her  sire ; 
For  she  was  motherless,  and  had  not  known 
The  name  of  sister;  but  her  heart  was  bound 
fn  the  affection  of  a  father's  heart, 

1 
• 

I 


And  in  the  love  of  one  who  was  not  there, 
But  far  upon  the  ocean.     She  had  been 
Nursed  tenderly  and  fondly ;  for  the  hand 
That  reared  her  in  that  solitude  was  full, 
And  might  have  lived  in  cities,  and  have  been 
Courted  by  the  vain  crowd,  but  that  he  chose 
The  silence  of  a  distant,  wild  retreat, 
Which  left  him  to  the  company  of  books, 
And  the  dear  culture  of  the  infant  mind, 
To  which  his  heart  was  knit  by  all  the  links 
That  bind  us  to  the  cherished  and  the  young, 
The  gentle  and  the  lovely.     He  had  fled 
From  a  harsh  world;  and  on  the  ocean's  brink. 
And  in  the  bosom  of  romantic  hills, 
And  by  the  channel  of  a  broken  stream, 
Had  sought  communion  with  the  beautiful 
And  the  sublime  of  Nature ;  but  he  still 
Nourished  the  kindest  feelings ;  and  in  one 
Who  had  from  him  her  life,  and  was  the  life 
Of  his  decaying  years,  he  treasured  up 
All  he  had  ever  known  of  early  love 
And  youth's  devoted  passion.     She  had  grown, 
In  her  unstained  seclusion,  bright  and  pure 
As  a  first  opened  rose-bud,  when  it  spreads 
Its  pink  leaves  to  the  sweetest  dawn  of  May, 
After  a  night-shower,  which  had  wet  the  woods 
And  gardens  with  the  big  round  drops  that  hang 
Dancing  in  the  fresh  breeze,  and  tremblingly 


Specking  the  flowers  with  light.     She  too  had  been 

Not  only  shielded  from  all  tint  and  stain 

Of  the  world's  evil,  that  the  first  clear  stream 

Of  feeling  in  her  heart  still  flowed  as  clear 

As  when  it  first  ran  onward,  like  a  spring 

That  ever  comes  from  the  deep-caverned  rock 

Flowing  in  virgin  crystal — but  her  mind 

Was  lifted  by  the  guidance  of  a  mind 

Wrought  to  habitual  greatness,  and  endued 

With  the  true  sense  of  glory.     She  was  taught 

That  happiness  was  in  the  tender  heart 

And  the  waked  soul;  that  the  full  treasure  spread 

In  beauty  o'er  the  ocean  and  the  earth, 

With  change  of  season,  and  its  ever  new 

And  grand  or  lovely  aspect,  was  enough 

To  move  the  heart  to  rapture,  and  supply 

The  food  of  thought,  the  never-failing  spring 

Of  sweet  sensations  and  unwasting  joys. 

But  nature  still  was  in  her,  and  she  soon 

Felt,  that  the  fond  affection  of  her  sire, 

And  her  loved  tasks — the  study  of  high  thoughts, 

Poured  out  in  sainted  volumes,  which  had  been 

Stamped  in  the  mint  of  Genius,  and  had  come 

Unhurt  through  darkest  ages,  bright  as  gems 

That  sparkle,  though  in  dust — the  skilful  touch 

Of  instruments  of  music,  and  the  voice 

Sweet  in  its  untaught  melody,  as  birds 

Clear-warbling  in  the  bushes,  but  attuned 


4 


To  the  just  flow  of  harmony — the  hand 

That  woke  the  forms  of  penciled  life,  and  gave 

Its  colour  to  the  violet,  and  its  fire 

To  the  dark  eye,  its  blushes  to  the  cheek, 

And  to  the  lip  its  sweetness;  or  that  drew 

O'er  the  pure  lawn  the  silken  thread,  and  wove 

The  full-leafed  vine,  and  the  luxuriant  rose, 

All  petals  and  vermilion — or  the  walk 

On  the  rude  shore,  to  hear  the  rushing  waves, 

Or  view  the  wide  sea  sleeping — on  the  hill 

To  catch  the  living  landscape,  and  combine 

The  miracles  of  nature  in  one  full 

And  deep  enchantment — or  to  trace  the  brook 

Up  to  its  highest  fountain  ui  the  shade 

Of  a  thick  tuft  of  alders,  and  go  down 

By  all  its  leaps  and  windings,  gathering  there 

The  forest  roses,  and  the  nameless  flowers, 

That  open  in  the  wilderness,  and  live 

Awhile  in  sweetest  loveliness,  and  die 

Without  an  eye  to  watch  them,  or  a  heart 

To  gladden  in  their  beauty — or  in  that, 

The  fondest  to  the  pure  and  delicate, 

The  gentle  deed  of  charity,  the  gift 

That  cheers  the  widow,  or  dries  up  the  flow 

Of  a  lone  orphan's  bitterness,  the  voice, 

The  melting  voice  of  sympathy,  which  heals, 

With  a  far  softer  touch,  the  wounded  heart, 

Than  the  cold  alms  dropped  by  a  scornful  hand, 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  I 

That  flings  the  dole  it  grudges- — such  but  tears 
Anew  the  closed  wound  open;  while  the  friend, 
Who  smiles  when  smoothing  down  the  lonely  couch, 
And  does  kind  deeds,  which  any  one  can  do, 
Who  has  a  feeling  spirit,  such  a  friend 
Heals  with  a  searching  balsam : — though  her  days 
Passed  on  in  such  sweet  labours,  still  she  felt 
Alone,  and  there  was  in  her  virgin  heart 
A  void  that  all  her  pleasures  could  not  fill. 
She  was  not  made  to  waste  her  years  alone, 
But  the  great  voice  of  Nature  spake  to  her, 
That  loving,  and  beloved  by  one  like  her, 
Youthful  and  beautiful,  her  heart  would  find 
In  the  fond  interchange  of  looks  and  thoughts, 
And  in  the  deep  anxiety  of  love, 
The  measure  of  her  joyous  spirit  full. 

And  such  an  one  she  found.     One  Sabbath  eve 
She  sat  within  an  ivied  church  hard  by, 
Beside  her  honoured  father,  when  the  choir 
Sang  their  last  chant,  and  the  deep  organ-peal 
Was  dying  through  the  twilight  vault  away; 
When  the  set  sun  had  thrown  upon  the  broad 
And  chequered  window,  one  full  saffron  blaze, 
So  that  the  pillars  glittered,  and  the  gold 
And  crimson  of  the  pulpit  tapestry 
Shone  like  the  clouds  that  curtained  o'er  the  west, 
And  seemed  to  glow,  as  they  were  folds  of  fire 
Hung  round  the  dark  blue  mountains ;  when  the  light 


• 


O  PERCJVAL  S    POEMS. 

Fell  through  the  aisles,  and  glanced  along  the  seats 

So  clear,  the  eye  was  dazzled,  and  all  forms 

Were  half  intensely  bright,  and  half  deep  shade — 

Then,  as  the  magic  sunset,  and  the  place 

Hallowed  to  her  pure  spirit,  and  the  sounds 

Of  closing  melody,  and  the  cairn  words, 

That  asked  a  blessing  on  the  silent  crowd, 

Who  listened  to  the  prayer  with  breathless  awe — 

As  these  came  o'er  her  feelings  with  a  charm 

Of  most  delicious  sweetness,  when  her  soul 

Caught  part  of  the  new  energy  abroad 

In  that  deep-hallowed  mansion,  and  was  far 

Ascending  to  the  glory  which  pervades 

The  one  Eternal  Temple — then  her  eye, 

Living  with  her  rapt  spirit,  chanced  to  fall 

On  the  bright  features  of  a  noble  youth, 

Whose  eye  fell  full  on  hers.     As  if  a  sense 

Of  kindred  being  had  at  once  possessed 

Their  spirits,  and  a  sacred  fire  informed 

Their  souls  with  one  new  life,  they  looked  and  loved. 

It  was  the  birth  of  passion — there  went  forth 

From  each  an  influence,  that  as  a  chain 

Linked  their  young  hearts  together.    They  would  turn 

Aside  their  eyes,  but  in  an  instant  back 

They  glanced  and  met;  and  as  they  met,  they  fell 

In  deep  confusion  downward.    Then  their  hearts 

Beat  throbbingly;  a  blush  rose  on  their  cheeks, 

Flushing  and  fading  like  the  changeful  play 


Of  colours  on  a  dolphin.     Thus  they  looked 
Few  minutes,  and  then  parted;  but  as  back 
They  sauntered  to  their  several  homes,  they  turned 
Momently  to  behold  the  lovely  thing, 
Which,  once  beloved,  grew  dearer  every  time 
Their  fond  eyes  met;  and  when  they  heard  a  sound 
From  lips  that  long  had  trembled — when  the  touch 
Thrilled  them,  and  tender  words  were  given  in  fear, 
So  that  the  low  voice  quivered,  and  the  words 
Died  half  unfinished — it  was  then  beheld 
As  something  more  than  mortal. 

Love  went  on, 

Day  after  day  expanding,  like  the  flower 
That  closes  with  the  darkness,  and  awakes 
When  the  new  morn  awakens.     So  their  love 
Caught  new  life  from  their  often  interviews, 
And  opened,  and  grew  riper ;  their  young  hearts 
Beat  in  a  truer  harmony  the  more 
Their  looks  were  blended,  and  their  words  exchanged. 
So  they  passed  on  in  love,  a  flowery  path 
Over  a  fragrant  meadow,  where  all  hues 
Of  loveliness  were  painted,  and  all  airs 
Of  fragrance  flowing.     In  the  pure  blue  heaven, 
Calm  as  a  summer  day,  serenity 
Smiled  ever,  and  their  hearts  partook  the  calm, 
That  reigned  so  bright  around  them.     'T  was  a  tii 
Of  Eden,  such  as  soon  will  pass  away, 
And  leave  the  storm  behind  it.     Not  for  earth, 


Not  for  the  changeful  beings,  who  in  sport 

Or  sorrow  dwell  amid  its  thorns  and  flowers, 

Is  this  serenity  a  certain  thing, 

Above  the  reach  of  passion,  or  the  clouds 

That  chill  and  darken.     They  had  lived  awhile 

Most  happy,  in  their  pure  and  innocent  love : 

They  were  too  young  for  evil;  and  they  knew 

But  ill  the  feeling  which  pervaded  them, 

And  drew  them  to  each  other's  side,  and  made 

Their  hours  of  meeting  ecstacy.     Their  play, 

Their  walks,  their  books,  their  talk  of  other  days 

And  other  nations,  all  that  they  had  gleaned 

From  nature  and  from  man — these  had  a  zest, 

Which  they  could  ill  account  for;  but  they  knew, 

And  keenly  felt,  its  happiness.     They  looked 

Affection,  but  they  told  it  not :  their  love 

Was  silent;  it  grew  on  through  many  years, 

And  ripened  as  the  tender  down  of  youth 

Showed  the  approach  of  manhood.     Then  it  spake, 

And  would  not  be  denied.     The  quiet  stream, 

Which  through  its  banks  of  velvet  turf  and  flowers, 

Flowed  in  an  unseen  channel,  with  a  voice 

Low  whispering  o'er  its  smooth  and  sandy  bed — 

This  stream  now  gathered  strength,  and  checked  and 

bound, 

Rushed  to  its  freedom — it  could  not  prevail. 
The  laws  of  honor,  and  the  stern  behest 
Of  a  false  order,  chained  them,  and  compelled 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

Their  kindred  spirits  to  a  separate  path, 

And  told  them  they  must  part,  and  meet  no  more. 

Her  life  was  humble,  and  her  simple  home 
Showed  little  of  the  greatness  which  lay  hid 
Beneath  so  plain  a  shelter.     Ivied  walls, 
And  woodbines  trained  to  overarch  the  doors 
And  windows ;  some  few  beds  of  summer  flowers, 
And  a  wild  shrubbery,  where  neatness  reigned, 
And  only  checked  the  too  luxuriant  growth 
Of  Nature,  but  subdued  it  not ;  within 
A  plain  well-ordered  household,  without  show 
Of  wealth  or  fashion — this  concealed  from  all, 
Who  were  not  in  the  secret,  what  had  marred 
The  peace  of  its  possessor,  and  had  drawn 
The  parasite  and  flatterer  to  disturb 
The  rest  he  sought  so  earnestly  and  long. 
He  found  it  and  was  happy.     He  had  marked 
The  growing  fondness  of  these  youthful  ones, 
And  sometimes  feared,  but  did  not  yet  refuse 
His  sanction  to  their  interviews.     No  sign 
Of  aught  but  common  friendship  yet  had  met 
His  watchful  eye;  but  when  he  saw  the  flame 
Come  forth  in  energy,  and  at  the  time 
When  love  is  danger,  and  if  checked  not,   death — 
Then  he  was  filled  with  fears,  and  well  he  knew, 
Unless  their  fondness  could  be  linked  by  law, 
In  the  pure  bond  of  wedded  love,  that  ruin 
Would  soon  o'ertake  them,  and  his  treasured  child 

2 


16 


Be  cast  on  the  cold  world,  its  sport  and  scorn. 
Therefore  he  sought  the  parents  of  the  youth, 
The  high  and  lordly.     In  their  castle  hall 
They  met  him,   under  frowning  battlements, 
Behind  the  high-arched  gateway,  in  the  midst 
Of  trophies  and  of  pictures,  which  revealed 
The  greatness  of  their  ancestry.     Their  pride 
Was  stung  by  the  base  offer,  and  they  spurned 
The  good  man  from  their  presence,  and  pronounced 
Their  deepest  malediction  on  their  son, 
If  he  should  ever  think  of  stooping  down 
From  the  high  perch  of  his  nobility, 
To  woo  and  wed  with  plebians,  and  those  poor. 

It  soon  was  ended — with  the  generous  heart 
Of  a  young  noble,  who  has  joined  the  pride 
Of  lofty  birth  with  all  the  unchecked  force 
Of  nature,  he  refused  to  bend  his  soul 
To  the  stern  mandates  of  society. 
He  loved — loved  keenly ;  and  he  could  not  bow 
To  what  seemed  tyranny,  and  so  he  sought 
His  wonted  happiness,  at  least  the  bliss 
Of  mutual  tears,  and  vows  of  tenderness, 
Never  to  leave  their  loves,  but  always  cling 
To  the  fixed  hope,  that  there  should  be  a  time, 
When  they  could  meet  unfettered,  and  be  blessed 
With  the  full  happiness  of  certain  love. 
He  sought  his  usual  meeting,  but  he  found 
The  welcome  door  closed  on  him,  and  was  told. 


a. 

He  must  away,  for  though  his  noble  life, 
Bright  with  its  many  virtues,  and  high  deeds, 
Had  nought  to  alienate  her  father's  heart, 
Yet  their  unequal  fortunes  must  forever 
Part  them,  and  therefore  he  must  not  delay. 
He  turned  with  heavy  heart,  and  slowly  went. 
With  often  pauses,  to  the  sounding  shore, 
And,  seated  on  a  broken  rock,  looked  long 
Over  the  far  blue  waters.     "  I  will  go," 
He  said,  after  long  silence,  "  I  will  go 
To  other  lands,  and  find  in  other  worlds, 
Wherewith  to  quell  this  passion,  if  a  love 
So  loiig  and  deeply  cherished,  can  be  quelled 
By  time  and  change.     There  is  no  pleasure  here ; 
The  cold  dead-hearted  nuptials,  which  the  great 
Seek,  in  their  anxious  longing  to  retain 
The  show  of  their  once  sure  ascendency, 
Made  sure  by  personal  greatness,  and  the  sway 
Of  a  high  spirit,  and  a  lofty  mind 

O'er  meaner  souls these  are  my  deepest  scorn. 

My  horror,  and  my  loathing.     I  am  one 

Who  find  within  me  a  nobility 

That  spurns  the  idle  prating  of  the  great, 

And  their  mean  boast  of  what  their  fathers  were, 

While  they  themselves  are  fools,  effeminates, 

The  scorn  of  all  who  know  the  worth  of  mind 

And  virtue.     I  have  cherished  in  my  heart 

A  love  for  one,  whose  beauty  would  have  charmed 


12 

In  Athens,  and  have  won  the  sensual  love 

Of  Eastern  monarchs ;  but  to  the  pure  heart, 

And  the  great  soul  within  her,  't  is  to  me 

As  nothing,  and  I  know  what  't  is  to  love 

A  spiritual  beauty,  and  behind  the  foil 

Of  an  unblemished  loveliness  still  find 

Charms  of  a  higher  order,  and  a  power 

Deeper  and  more  resistless.     Had  I  found 

Such  thoughts  and  feelings,  such  a  clear  deep  stream 

Of  mind,  in  one  whom  vulgar  men  had  thrown 

As  a  dull  pebble  from  them,  I  had  loved, 

Not  with  a  love  less  fond,  nor  with  a  flame 

Of  less  intense  devotion.     I  must  go  ; 

I  must  forget.     There  is  a  sense  of  death 

Comes  o'er  me,  when  I  tear  myself  away 

From  one  so  bright  and  lovely.     Had  the  Sun 

Set  in  an  endless  darkness,  life  had  been 

Not  darker  than  the  journey  I  must  take 

Alone,  along  a  hard  and  thorny  way, 

Where  only  interest  rules,  and  faith  and  love 

Are  banished,  and  the  cold  and  heartless  crowd 

Live,  each  the  other's  plunderer,  as  if  life 

Were  only  meant  for  rapine,  and  poor  man 

Were  made  to  prey  upon  his  kindred  wretch. 

But  I  must  go — only  one  short  adieu, 

Only  a  few  fond  words,  a  few  dear  looks, 

One  kiss  at  parting,  and  our  hopes  are  ended. 

We  long  have  dreamed  of  happiness,  long  known 


13 


Joys  which  were  more  than  mortal,  long  have  felt 
The  bliss  of  mingled  hearts  and  blended  souls, 
And  long  have  thought  the  vision  was  eternal  : 
It  vanishes,  and  I  am  now  a  wretch, 
And  what  will  be  her  sorrows,  none  can  tell." 
The  sun  was  setting,  and  his  last  rays  threw 
Bright  colours  on  the  clouds  that  hung  around 
The  mountains,  dimly  rising  in  the  west 
Over  a  broad  expanse  of  sheeted  gold, 
On  which  a  ship  lay  floating.     It  was  calm — 
Her  sails  were  set,  but  yet  the  dying  wind 
Scarce  wooed  them,  as  they  trembled  on  the  yard 
With  an  uncertain  motion.     She  arose, 
As  a  swan  rises  on  her  gilded  wings, 
When  on  a  lake  at  a  sunset  she  uprears 
Her  form  from  out  the  waveless  stream,  and  steers 
Into  the  far  blue  ether — so  that  ship 
Seemed  lifted  from  the  waters,  and  suspended, 
Winged  with  her  bright  sails,  in  the  silent  air. 
A  voice  came  from  that  ship,  the  voice  of  joy, 
The  song  of  a  light  heart,  and  it  invoked 
The  coming  of  the  breeze,  to  send  them  forth 
Over  the  rolling  ocean.     He  looked  out 
On  the  wide  sea,  and  on  the  sheeted  bay, 
And  on  the  rocking  vessel  ;  and  at  once 
His  purpose  was  resolved.     He  must  away, 
He  must  to  other  regions,  and  there  strive 
To  conquer  love  so  cherished.     He  drew  out 


14  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 


%His  pencil,  and  then  traced  few  hurried  lines. 
Telling  her  of  his  absence,  and  his  hope 
Of  happiness  at  his  return,  and  yet 
Ending  it  with  a  fear,  that  he  should  never 
Cross  the  wide  waters  to  her  :  —  he  too  gave 
His  signal  ;  if  perchance  a  ship  drew  near, 
And  bore  a  pennon  on  the  topmast  yard, 
White  with  a  heart  stamped  on  it,  she  might  know 
He  was  there,  hastening  home,  and  be  prepared 
To  meet  him,  and  be  happy.     This  he  took, 
And  up  a  narrow  valley,  hung  with  trees, 
Whose  roots  clung  to  the  rifted  rock,  whose  boughs 
Met,  and  o'erarched  the  glade  ;  along  the  bank 
Of  a  clear  stream,   that  calmly  wound  its  way 
Under  this  verdant  canopy,  and  flowed 
Through  a  fresh  turf,  and  beds  of  scented  flowers  — 
Up  this  he  took  his  path,  and  as  he  drew 
Near  to  the  garden  wall,  and  stood  with  ear 
Attentive  to  a  sound,  that  came  to  him 
On  the  still  evening  air,  as  if  a  hymn 
Were  sung  above  the  clouds,  and  floated  down 
Through  mist  and  dews,  and  softly  fell  to  earth, 
Charming  the  ear  of  darkness  —  soon  he  saw 
Beneath  a  vine  bower,  seated  on  a  couch 
Of  closely  matted  turf,  the  tender  girl, 
Where  all  his  wishes  centered,  and  he  drew 
Silently  through  the  thicket  to  her  side. 
She  started  first  in  fear,  but  when  she  saw 


The  well-known  youth,  she  deeply  blushed  and  smiled; 

Then  thinking  of  his  banishment,  she  dropped 

Warm  tears  of  truest  sorrow.     He,  with  fond 

And  feeling  voice,  consoled  her,  and  renewed 

His  oft  repeated  vows,  and  told  of  years 

Of  undisturbed  affection — how  that  time 

And  truth  would  conquer,  and  their  love  would  be 

Brighter  by  their  affliction.     Though  his  heart 

Ached  with  the  thought  of  parting,  and  was  forced 

Even  to  a  stern  composure,  yet  he  smiled 

To  make  her  happy.     "  We  must  part  awhile ; 

I  must  go  o'er  the  sea  to  other  lands; 

It  is  the  call  of  duty ;  but  fear  not, 

I  shall  return,  and  then  our  loves  are  sure. 

Dream  not  of  danger  on  the  sea — one  power 

Protects  us  always,  and  the  honest  heart 

Fears  not  the  tempest.     We  must  part  awhile  ; 

A  few  short  months — though  short,  they  must  be  long 

Without  thy  dear  society  ;  but  yet 

We  must  endure  it,  and  our  love  will  be 

The  fonder  after  parting — it  will  grow 

Intenser  in  our  absence,  and  again 

Burn  with  a  keener  glow,  when  I  return. 

Fear  not;  this  is  my  last  resolve,  and  this 

My  parting  kiss."     He  put  the  folded  lines 

In  her  soft  hand,  and  kissed  her  offered  lips 

Ardently,  and  then  suddenly  withdrew 

From  her  embrace,  and  down  the  narrow  vale 


16  PERCIVAI/S  POEMS. 

Fled  on  with  hasty  footsteps  to  the  shore. 

Along  the  beach  he  wandered,  looking  out 

Upon  the  glorious  sunset,  which  arrayed 

All  things  in  glory,  painting  them  with  gold 

And  deepest  red  and  azure — over  head 

The  sky  was  coloured  with  a  purest  blue, 

And  there  one  star  shone  forth,  the  star  of  love, 

His  beacon;  and  it  hung  above  the  ship 

As  if  it  led  him  thither.     He  received 

The  omen,  and  went  onward.     Out  at  sea 

The  broad  waves  heaved,  now  blue,  now  green,  now 

tipped 

With  a  gilt  foam,  and  on  the  unruffled  bay 
There  was  a  circle  round  the  setting  sun 
Of  a  most  glittering  gold,  and  as  it  spread 
Farther  and  farther  out,  it  changed  its  hue 
To  a  clear  glassy  silver,  till  it  seemed 
Thin  air,  and  the  far  mountains  hung  above  it 
Suspended  in  the  sky.     They  darkly  frowned, 
And  their  long  shadows  travelled  o'er  the  bay, 
As  the  sun  sank  still  lower,  while  their  ridge 
Glowed  like  a  flaming  furnace,  and  a  line 
Of  mottled  clouds,  that  rose  behind  them,  streaming 
Into  the  clear  cold  North,  was  dyed  with  tints, 
Like  the  new  rainbow,  when  it  first  comes  out 
From  the  dark  bosom  of  the  thunder  cloud, 
And  spans  it  with  its  beauty,  or  the  hues 
That  veiled  Aurora,  when  she  first  awoke 


PERCIVAL  S    POEMS. 

And  sprang  from  darkness,  and  with  saffron  robe 
And  rosy  lingers,  drove  her  fiery  car 
On  over  Ida  to  the  higher  heaven. 

He  went  amid  these  glorious  things  of  earth, 
Transient  as  glorious,  and  along  the  beach 
Of  snowy  sands,  and  rounded  pebbles,  walked. 
\\itching  the  coming  of  the  evening  tide. 
Rising  with  every  ripple,  as  it  kissed 
The  gravel  with  a  softly  gurgling  sound, 
And  still  advancing  up  the  level  shore. 
Till,  in  his  deep  abstraction,  it  flowed  round 
His  foot-prints,  and  awoke  him.     When  he  came, 
Where  a  long  reef  stretched  out,  and  in  its  bays 
Scooped  from  the  shelving  rocks,  received  the  sea, 
And  held  it  as  a  mirror  deep  ami  dark. 
He  paused,  and  standing  then  against  the  si 
•ve  his  signal.      Soon  he  saw  on  board 
The  stir  of  preparation:  they  let  down 
A  boat,  and  soon  her  raised  ami  dipping  oar- 
Flashed  in  the  setting  light,  and  round  her  prow 
The  gilt  sea  swelled  and  crinkled,  spreading  out 
In  a  wide  circle:   and  she  glided  on 
Smoothly,  and  with  a  whispering  SvHind,  thai  grow 
Louder  with  every  dipping  of  the  oar-, 
Tiuil  she  neared  the  reef,  and  sent  a  surge 
Up  through  its  coves,  and  covered  them  with  foam. 
He  stepped  on  board,  and  soon  they  bore  him  back 
To  the  scarce  rocking  vessel,  uhere  she  l.iy 

3 


IS 

Waiting  the  night  wind.     On  the  deck  he  sat, 

And  looked  to  one  point  only,  save  at  times, 

When  his  eye  glanced  around  the  mingled  scene 

Of  beauty  and  sublimity.     Meanwhile 

The  sun  had  set,  the  painted  sky  and  clouds 

Put  off  their  liveries,  the  bay  its  robe 

Of  brightness,  and  the  stars  were  thick  in  heaven.   * 

They  looked  upon  the  waters,  and  below 

Another  sky  swelled  out,  thick  set  with  stars, 

And  chequered  with  light  clouds,  which  from  the  North 

Came  flitting  o'er  the  dim-seen  hills,  and  shot 

Like  birds  across  the  bay.     A  distant  shade 

Dimmed  the  clear  sheet — it  darkened,  and  it  drew 

Nearer.     The  waveless  sea  was  seen  to  rise 

In  feathery  curls,  and  soon  it  met  the  ship, 

And  a  breeze  struck  her.     Quick  the  floating  sails 

Rose  up  and  drooped  again.     The  wind  came  on 

Fresher;  the  curls  were  waves;  the  sails  were  filled 

Tensely;  the  vessel  righted  to  her  course, 

And  ploughed  the  waters ;  round  her  prow  the  foam 

Tossed,  and  went  back  along  her  polished  sides, 

And  floated  off,  bounding  the  rushing  wake, 

That  seemed  to  pour  in  torrents  from  her  stern. 

The  wind  still  freshened,  and  the  sails  were  stretched. 

Till  the  yards  cracked.     She  bent  before  its  force, 

And  dipped  her  lee-side  low  beneath  the  waves. 

Straight  out  she  went  to  sea,  as  when  a  hawk 

Darts  on  a  dove,  and  with  a  motionless  wing 


19 

Cuts  the  light  yielding  air.     The  mountains  dipped 

Their  dark  walls  to  the  waters,  and  the  hills 

Scarce  reared  their  green  tops  o'er  them.     One  white 

point, 

On  which  a  light  house  blazed,  alone  stood  out 
In  the  broad  sea,  and  there  he  fixed  his  eye, 
Taking  his  last  look  of  his  native  shore. 
Night  wore  away,  and  still  the  wind  blew  strong, 
And  the  ship  ploughed  the  waves,  which  now  were 

heaved 

In  high  and  rolling  billows.     All  were  glad, 
And  laughed  and  shouted,  as  she  darted  on, 
And  plunged  amid  the  foam,  and  tossed  it  high 
Over  the  deck,  as  when  a  strong  curbed  steed 
Flings  the  froth  from  him  in  his  eager  race. 
All  had  been  dimly  star-lit,  but  the  moon 
Late  rising,  silvered  o'er  the  tossing  sea, 
And  lighted  up  its  foam-wreaths,  and  just  threw 
One  parting  glance  upon  the  distant  shores. 
They  met  his  eye — the  sinking  rocks  were  bright, 
And  a  clear  line  of  silver  marked  the  hills, 
Where  he  had  said  farewell.     A  sudden  tear 
Gushed,  and  his  heart  was  melted;  but  he  soon 
Repressed  the  weakness,  and  he  calmly  watched 
The  fading  vision.     Just  as  it  retired 
Into  the  common  darkness,  on  his  eyes 
Sleep  fell,  and  with  his  looks  turned  to  his  home, 
And  dearer  than  his  home — to  her  he  loved, 


20 

He  closed  them,  and  his  thoughts  were  lost  in  dreams 

Bright  and  too  glad  to  be  realities. 

Calmly  he  slept,  and  lived  on  happy  dreams, 

Till  from  the  bosom  of  the  boundless  sea, 

Now  spreading  far  and  wide  without  a  shore, 

The  cloudless  sun  arose,  and  he  awoke. 

The  sky  was  still  serene,  and  from  the  bed 
Of  ocean  darted  forth  the  glowing  sun, 
And  flashed  along  the  waters.     On  they  sailed  : 
The  wind  blew  steady,  and  they  saw  that  sun 
Rise,  and  go  down,  and  set,  and  still  it  blew 
Freshly  and  calmly.     They  had  left  the  shore 
Long  leagues  behind  them,  and  the  mid-sea  now 
Bore  them  upon  its  bosom  on  their  way 
To  lands  where  other  flowers  and  other  trees 
Dress  out  the  landscape,  and  where  other  men 
Walk  in  the  light  of  Heaven.     Thither  he  went, 
And  none  knew,  of  his  kindred,  when  or  where 
He  had  escaped  them.     They,  with  anxious  quest, 
Sought  him,  and  after  long  and  fruitless  search 
Believed  him  dead.      Awhile  they  mourned  his  loss, 
As  great  ones  mourn,  and  then  he  passed  away 
Into  oblivion,  and  they  filled  his  place 
In  their  affections  with  a  gilded  toy, 
And  found  their  treasures  ampler  by  his  death. 
Not  so  with  her  who  loved  him ;  when  he  fled, 
She  followed,  but  soon  sank  beneath  the  weight 
Of  deep  and  sudden  sorrow.     He  had  gone 


21 

Over  the  sea ;  had  sought  the  dangerous  wave, 

And  might  be  wrecked,  or  on  some  distant  shore 

Lingering  a  hopeless  captive.     To  that  point 

Where  the  flag  waved,  she  often  bent  her  steps, 

And  gazed  upon  the  ocean  earnestly, 

Watching  each  dim  speck  on  the  farthest  verge 

Of  sight,  and  deeming  every  cloud  a  sail, 

And  every  wreath  of  foam  her  lover's  sign. 

Two  years  had  gone  away,  and  she  had  thus 

Sought  the  high  cliff  at  morning,  noon,  and  night, 

And  gazed  in  eager  longing  till  her  eye 

Was  fixed  and  glazed.     Her  cheek  grew  thin  and  pale; 

Her  form  was  wasted ;  and  all  knew  that  sorrow 

Preyed  on  the  blossom  of  her  health,  and  eat 

Her  life  away.     A  little  while,  and  death 

Would  come  to  her  deliverance.     Little  know 

The  cold  unfeeling  crowd  how  strong  the  love, 

The  first  warm  love  of  youth  ;  how  long  it  lives 

Unfed  and  unrequited ;  how  it  bears 

Absence  and  cruel  scorn,  and  still  looks  calm 

And  patient  on  the  eye,  that  turns  aside, 

And  shows  its  studied  coldness — how  much  more 

It  burns  and  feeds  upon  the  flame  of  life, 

When  it  was  fully  met,  and  found  a  heart 

As  warm  and  ardent,  and  as  bent  to  hers, 

As  hers  to  him.     Youth  is  the  time  of  love  ; 

All  other  loves  are  lifeless,  and  but  flowers 

Wreathed  round  decay,  and  with  a  livid  hue 


22 


Blowing  upon  a  grave.     The  first  fresh  love 

Dies  never  wholly  ;  it  lives  on  through  pain 

And  disappointment :  often  when  the  heart 

Is  crushed  and  all  its  sympathies  pressed  out, 

This  lingers,  and  awakens,  and  shines  bright, 

Even  on  the  borders  of  a  wretched  grave. 

Unhappy  he,  who  throws  that  gift  away; 

Unhappy  he,  who  lets  a  tender  heart, 

Bound  to  him  by  the  earliest  ties  of  love, 

Fall  from  him  by  his  own  neglect,  and  die, 

Because  it  met  no  kindne"ss,  and  was  spurned 

Even  in  the  earnest  offer.     Life  soon  fades, 

And  with  it  love;  and  when  it  once  has  faded, 

There  is  no  after  bloom,   no  second  spring. 

"  So  passes  in  the  passage  of  a  day 

The  flower  and  verdure  of  our  mortal  life ; 

Nor,  though  the  spring  renew  her  fruits  and  flowers, 

Doth  it  renew  its  beauty,  but  it  fades 

Once  and  forever.     Let  us  pluck  the  rose, 

/  N. 

In  the  unclouded  morning  of  this  day, 
Which  soon  will  lose  its  bright  serenity. 
O !  let  us  pluck  the  first  blown  rose  of  love ; 
Let  us  love  now  in  this  our  fairest  youth, 
When  love  can  find  a  full  and  fond  return."* 
One  evening  I  had  wandered  by  the  shore, 
Looking  upon  the  ocean,  as  it  lay 

*  Cositrapassa  al  trapassar  d'un  giorno,  fee.     Tasso. 


23 

Spread  in  its  beauty  round  me.     'T  was  a  time 
For  spirits,  all  had  such  serenity. 
Scarce  had  a  cloud  chequered  the  autumn  sky, 
That  rose  above  me  in  a  boundless  arch 
Of  purest  azure.     All  the  woods  were  hung 
With  many  tints,  the  fading  livery 
.  Of  life,  in  which  it  mourns  the  coming  storms 
Of  winter,  and  the  quiet  winds  awoke 
Faint  dirges  in  their  withered  leaves,  and  breathed 
Their  sorrows  through  the  groves.     My  heart  felt  soft 
Under  their  tender  influence.     I  seemed 
A  sharer  in  the  grief  of  sighing  winds, 
And  whispering  trees.     I  clomb  the  rock,  and  trod 
The  dying  grass  that  grew  upon  its  brow, 
And  gazed  upon  the  ocean,  now  as  bright 
As  in  the  freshest  spring,  unchangeable, 
Always  the  same,  or  only  to  the  force 
Of  calm  and  tempest  yielding,  never  old, 
And  never  fading;  in  its  wildest  storms 
Soon  to  be  calm,  and  when  in  sheeted  light 
Spread  to  the  farthest  circle  of  the  sky, 
Soon  to  obey  the  winds,  and  wake  in  wrath. 

I  walked  along  that  rock,  and  heard  the  waves 
Chafing  its  foot,  and  saw  the  tossing  foam 
Playing  in  eddies  round  it.     Then  the  tide 
Had  risen,  and  a  wind  came  from  the  sea 
Curling  the  little  waves,  until  they  broke 
In  infant  surges  on  the  murmuring  shore. 


The  sky  grew  dark ;  and,  as  I  homeward  turned, 
I  saw  a  woman  sitting  by  the  staff 
On  which  the  signal  hung,  with  mantle  wrapped 
Close  round  her,  and  with  eye  intently  fixed 
On  an  approaching  vessel,  as  it  came 
Quickly  before  the  wind,  and  up  the  bay 
Glided.     She  followed  it  with  earnest  look, 
Until  it  turned  a  distant  point,  and  drew 
Dimly  behind  the  hills  and  vanished.     Then 
She  turned  again  to  sea,  and  long  she  looked 
On  the  white  curls  of  foam,  as  if  she  saw 
A  signal  there ;  but  yet  there  was  no  sail 
On  the  dark  waters.     With  a  lingering  foot 
Back  she  retired,  and,  often  turning,  looked 
Still  earnestly  abroad,  and  found  no  hope. 
I  saw  her  weep,  and  faintly  hang  her  head, 
As  a  pale  lily  hangs,  when,  filled  with  rain, 
After  long  summer  heat  and  heavy  showers, 
It  bends  upon  its  withered  stalk,  and  sheds 
The  unwelcome  moisture.     Slowly  she  withdrew 
Into  a  thicket,  where  a  trodden  path, 
Her  daily  path,  led  to  her  father's  home. 

He  saw  her  fading  cheek;  he  knew  the  fire 
That  wasted  her ;  and  with  a  parent's  love 
He  sought  to  heal  her  grief,  but  only  made 
The  wound  still  deeper.      Comfort  cannot  soothe 
The  heart,  whose  life  is  centered  in  the  thought 
Of  happy  loves,  once  known,  and  still  in  hope 


/ 


Living  with  a  consuming  energy. 
He  found  remonstrance  fruitless,  reason  vain; 
And  therefore,  with  a  kindness,  which  was  wise, 
He  humoured  her,  and  let  her  seek  that  rock 
Unchecked,  and  only  watched,  that  nought  of  harm 
Might  meet  her.     So  she  sought  it,  when  the  snow 
Mantled  it,  and  the  sea  was  rudely  lashed 
By  the  cold  north  wind;  but  a  father's  hand 
Was  near  to  guard  her.     It  was  now  divined, 
That  he,  whom  she  had  loved,  had  crossed  the  sea, 
And  still  was  living,  and  would  soon  return. 
Some  then  were  joyous,  not  with  unfeigned  joy; 
For  when  they  told  their  hopes,  that  he  would  come 
From  his  long  wanderings  home,  they  inly  felt 
A  sorrow,  which  revealed  itself,  and  checked 
Often  the  words  of  comfort,  which  they  gave 
To  those,  who  wept  his  loss  sincerely,  those 
Who  cannot  conquer  nature,  which  will  make 
A  child  forever  dear,  and  through  the  clouds, 
That  vice  and  selfish  greatness  cast  around, 
Sometimes  will  flash  abroad,  and  be  revealed. 

Winter  had  passed  away,  and  then  Spring  came, 
Lovely  as  ever,  with  her  crown  of  flowers, 
And  dress  of  verdure.     She  was  decked  with  smiles^ 
And  as  she  danced  along  the  springing  turf, 
New  flowers  awoke  to  welcome  her,  and  birds 
Hailed  her  from  bush  and  forest.     Then  the  sea, 
Girt  by  its  greener  shores,  seemed  rolling  on 


?r  sho 


With  brighter  waves,  and  the  sun  sparkled  there 

With  an  unusual  brilliancy.     The  earth 

Was  beautiful,  and  like  the  seat  of  Gods, 

Or  what  we  dream  of  Eden;  and  all  hearts 

Were  sharers  in  its  gladness.     Bird  and  beast 

Felt  it,  and,  as  they  leaped,  or  as  they  flew, 

They  spake  their  joy;  and  even  the  voiceless  woods, 

Mute  in  themselves,  were  vocal  with  the  winds, 

And  the  low  murmuring  breezes  through  their  bough;; 

Seemed  to  speak  out  their  still  and  quiet  bliss. 

All  hearts  were  glad  with  the  glad  season.     One 

Alone  knew  nought  of  pleasure,  and  the  smiles 

Of  others  were  a  mockery  to  her, 

And  told  her  of  the  joy,  that  once  had  been, 

But  was  not,  and  she  could  not  hope,  would  be. 

Hope,  by  too  long  deferring,  had  gone  out, 

And  left  her  soul  in  darkness.     Still  she  went 

Daily  to  that  one  point,  and  there  she  gazed 

Fixedly  on  the  ocean,  till  her  head 

Grew  dizzy,  and  her  reason  almost  went; 

And  then  she  wandered  home,  and  wept  away 

The  fever  of  her  brain.     A  woodbine  grew 

Over  her  window,  and  its  leaves  shut  out 

The  light,  and  now  its  flowers  were  opening  forth 

Their  sweetness,  and  the  wind  that  entered  there 

Came  loaded  with  its  perfume.     Once  she  loved 

The  tufted  flowers,  and  she  inhaled  their  breath 

With  a  deep  sense  of  gladness ;  but  she  now 


Repelled  it  as  a  hateful  thing,  and  wished 

The  vine  were  torn  and  scattered.     Every  year 

A  linnet  came,  and  built  her  cup-like  nest 

Within  that  arbour,  and  she  fed  her  young, 

And  sang  them  to  their  slumbers,  and  at  dawn 

Wakened  them  with  her  clear  and  lively  note. 

She  fed  the  timid  creature,  till  it  grew 

Familiar,  and  would  sit  upon  her  hand, 

And  pick  the  crumbs  she  gave  it;  but  she  now 

Neglected  it,  and  when  it  came,  and  sought 

Her  former  kindness,  she  regarded  not 

Its  fluttering  and  its  song.     Her  heart  was  chilled 

And  dead  to  all  its  softer  sympathies. 

It  cherished  but  one  feeling,  hopeless  love, 

Love  stronger  by  endurance,  ever  growing 

With  the  decay  of  life  and  all  its  powers. 

He  had  been  wandering  long,  and  found  no  rest— 
Nothing  could  tear  the  image  from  his  soul, 
That  dwelt  there  as  an  ever  present  God, 
Controlling  all  his  being.     He  had  seen 
Nature  in  a  new  beauty;  and  a  heart 
Free  from  all  other  influence,  had  swelled 
Beneath  the  bright  enchantment  ;  but  he  looked 
On  all  the  fair  variety  around 
With  a  cold  eye,  because  he  looked  alone, 
And  felt  that  what  he  looked  on,  was  not  seen 
By  one,  who  had  been  ever  in  his  walks, 
As  an  attendant  spirit,  watching  all 


28 


That  lifted  him,  or  soothed  him,  with  a  sense 

Of  kindred  awe  or  pleasure.     When  alone 

He  could  not  mingle  with  the  glorious  things 

Of  Earth  and  Heaven  ;  he  could  not  pass  away 

Into  the  open  depths  of  the  far  sky, 

And  dwell  among  its  many-coloured  forms 

Of  cloud  and  vapour,  where  they  hung  the  arch, 

As  with  imperial  tapestry,  and  veiled 

The  throne  of  the  Omnipotent.     The  Earth, 

Now  in  its  newest  Spring,  all  dressed  with  flowers, 

And  redolent  of  roses  and  of  vines 

From  their  wide  purple  beds,  and  sunward  slopes, 

Where  the  bee  murmured,  and  the  early  dews 

Soon  rose  in  clouds  of  perfume,  as  the  dawn 

Came  o'er  the  pine-clad  mountains,  and  lit  up 

A  world  of  present  life  and  ancient  ruin, 

Where  the  rose  bloomed  as  brightly,  and  the  vine 

Shot  forth  as  heavy  cluster  and  full  wreaths 

Of  ivy  twined  around  each  tottering  pile, 

And  mantled  arch  and  column,  with  its  deep 

Luxuriant  verdure  ;  all  that  he  beheld 

Of  evergrowing  nature  and  of  man, 

Whose  works  are  fading,  and  when  they  decay, 

Have  no  restoring  energy,  but  drop 

Fragment  by  fragment  into  utter  ruin  5 

All  that  had  waked  in  other  hearts  the  love 

Of  ancient  glory,  and  the  proud  resolve 

To  be,  as  they  were,  glorious,  or  had  filled 


29 

The  soul  with  sorrow,  and  the  eye  with  tears, 
Over  their  fallen  greatness,  yet  had  made 
This  sorrow  partly  joyous,  by  the  sight 
Of  a  new  life  forever  springing  round  them, 
And  still  as  fresh  and  fragrant,  as  when  first 
Bright  from  the  quarry,  their  new  temples  stood 
Proud  in  the  sun,  and  lifted  high  their  fronts 
To  the  admiring  eye  of  gods  and  men — 
This  had  to  him  no  pleasure;  he  could  not 
Raze  out  the  deep-fixed  passion,  which  so  long 
Had  been  his  daily  happiness,  and  formed 
And  fashioned  all  his  studies  and  his  joys 
To  this  one  pure  enjoyment.     Earth  was  fair, 
And  Heaven  was  glorious,  when  he  heard  her  say, 
They  were  thus  fair  and  glorious  ;  but  alone, 
They  had  no  form  nor  colour,  and  were  lost 
In  one  dim  melancholy  hue  of  death. 
And  so  with  man — he  wandered  through  the  crowd 
In  solitude,  that  coldest  solitude, 
Which  tortures,  while  it  chills  us.     They  were  gay 
And  busy,  but  he  heeded  not ;  the  great 
Rolled  by  him,  and  were  noticed  not;  the  poor 
Pleaded,  and  yet  he  listened  not: — one  thought 
Alone  went  with  him,  and  all  other  things 
Stirred  round  him  like  the  shadows  of  a  dream. 
He  would  not  linger  thus;  he  looked  to  home, 
And  her  who  gave  to  home  a  double  charm. 
He  was  resolved,  and  soon  again  the  sea 


30  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 


• 


Received  him;  and  for  many  days  the  sun 
Beheld  him  steering  to  his  native  shore. 

'T  was  a  calm  summer  evening — one  white  sail 
Moved  on  the  silent  water,  motionless, 
Scarce  stealing  to  the  shore.     She  watched  that  sail, 
And  followed  it  with  an  inquiring  eye, 
In  every  tack  it  took  to  catch  the  wind, 
Fancying  she  saw  the  signal.     Slowly  on 
It  came.     The  glassy  ocean  seemed  to  change 
At  distance  into  air;  and  so  the  ship 
Seemed  moving  like  a  bird  along  the  sky. 
Sometimes  it  stood  athwart  her,  and  the  sails, 
Hung  loosely  on  the  yards,  seemed  waving  lines 
Tinged  with  the  sunset;  and  again  it  turned 
With  prow  directed  to  her,  and  at  once 
The  broad  white  canvass  threw  its  silvery  sheet 
Full  on  her  eye,  and  glittered  in  the  west. 
Nearer  it  came,  but  slowly;  till  at  length 
Its  form  was  marked  distinctly,  and  she  caught 
Eagerly,  as  it  waved  upon  a  yard 
Near  the  main  topmast,  what  her  wearied  eye 
Had  sought  so  long,  and  found  not.     It  was  there ; 
The  signal,  one  white  pennon,  with  a  heart 
Stamped  in  its  centre ;  and  at  once  her  joy 
Was  speechless  and  o'erflowing.     Fixed,  she  looked 
With  trembling  earnestness,  and  down  her  cheeks 
The  tears  ran  fast,  and  her  scarce-moving  lips 
Had  words  without  a  voice.     Thus  she  sat  long, 


31 

Motionless  in  the  fervour  of  her  joy, 

Absorbed  in  one  emotion,  which  had  bound 

Her  form  unto  her  spirit,  and  had  made 

All  other  powers  the  ministers  to  thought. 

They  hurried  through  her  mind,  her  first  fond  love, 

Its  many  pleasures,  hours  of  early  hope 

Unclouded  by  the  fear  of  coming  ill, 

And  present  happiness,  which,  like  the  dawn 

In  the  sweet  month  of  May,  is  full  of  life, 

And  yet  serene  and  tranquil,  budding  out 

With  blossoms  of  futurity,  and  spreading 

To  the  bright  eye  of  Heaven  the  tender  flowers, 

Where  the  young  fruit  lies  hidden,  till  the  sun 

Ripen  it  to  its  full  maturity. 

These  hurried  through  her  mind,  and  with  them  came 

Long  anxious  days,  long  days  of  bitterness, 

Dark  with  the  fears  that  weigh  upon  the  heart 

Whose  love  is  young  and  tender,  when  the  chance 

Of  sea  or  battle  passes  o'er  the  head 

Of  him  who  has  the  secret  of  her  soul. 

The  sun  was  setting,  and  the  dazzling  orb 
Sunk  down  behind  the  mountains,  darting  up 
Long  rays  of  golden  light  into  the  air, 
Like  glories  round  the  sacred  countenance 
In  one  of  Raphael's  pictures.     All  was  clear 
But  one  dark  cloud,  which  rose  from  out  the  point 
Where  the  storm  gathers  after  sultry  days, 
And  launches  forth  the  lightning.     This  heaved  up 


Its  dusky  billows,  and  their  tips  were  tinged 
With  a  bright  flame,  while  all  below  was  dark 
Fearfully,  and  it  swelled  before  the  wind, 
Like  the  strong  canvass  of  a  gallant  ship 
Standing  before  the  tempest.     It  just  crowned 
The  hill  at  sunset;  but  it  now  came  on, 
First  slowly,  till  it  rose  upon  the  air, 
Frowning,  and  threw  its  shadow  o'er  the  earth, 
And  flashed  intensely;  then  it  seemed  to  move 
With  a  new  pace,  and  every  instant  swept 
Still  farther  on  the  sky,  and  sent  its  voice 
Deep-roaring  with  the  mingled  sound  of  winds 
Amid  the  shaken  forests,  and  the  peals 
Re-echoed  from  the  mountains.     Now  the  sea 
Darkened  beneath  its  shadow,  and  it  curled 
Without  a  breath,  as  if  it  shook  in  fear 
Before  the  coming  tempest.     She  looked  wild, 
First  on  the  cloud,  then  on  the  ship,  which  now 
Steered  to  a  cove  behind  a  sandy  point, 
On  which  the  light  house  stood,  but  yet  the  winds 
Were  light  and  baffling,  and  against  her  course  ; 
And  so  the  sails  flapped  loosely,  and  she  rocked 
Motionless  on  the  crisping  waves,  and  lay 
Waiting,  a  victim,  for  the  threatening  storm. 
Then,  as  she  looked  with  an  intenser  gaze, 
She  saw  the  sweeps  put  out,  and  every  arm 
Strained  to  the  effort,  but  their  strength  availed  not 
To  send  them  to  a  haven.     Then  her  heart 


Sank,  and  her  hopes  were  darkened,  till  her  form 
Shook  with  her  fears.     The  clouds  rolled  on  the  wind 
In  mingling  billows,  and  the  lightnings  leaped 
From  point  to  point ;  then  in  an  instant  burst 
The  thunder  crash,  and  one  undying  roar 
Filled  the  wide  air.     At  last  the  cold  wind  came, 
And  the  flag  streamed  and  quivered,  and  her  robes 
Flew  lightly  round  her.     First  short  broken  waves 
Rose  on  the  bay  ;  their  tops  were  white  with  foam, 
And  on  they  hurried,  like  the  darting  flight 
Of  sea-mews  when  they  fly  before  the  storm. 
She  looked  upon  the  ship;  all  hands  aloft 
Took  in  the  sails,  and  scarcely  were  they  furled, 
When  the  blast  struck  her.     To  its  force  she  bowed, 
And  as  the  waves  rose  now  with  mountain  swell, 
Upward  she  sprang,  and  then  she  rushed  away 
Into  the  gulfy  waters.     Now  the  storm 
Stood  o'er  her,  and  the  rain  and  hail  came  down 
In  torrents.     All  was  darkness;  through  the  air 
The  gushing  clouds  streamed  onward,  and  they  took 
The  nearest  headlands  from  her  straining  sight, 
And  made  the  sea  invisible,  but  when 
A  flash  revealed  it,  and  she  saw  the  surge 
Pouring  upon  the  rocks  below,  all  foam 
And  fury.     What  a  mingled  sound  above, 
Around  her,  and  beneath  her ;  one  long  peal 
Seemed  to  pervade  the  heavens ;  and  one  wide  rush 
Of  winds  and  rain  poured  by  her ;  and  the  sound 

5 


34 

Of  the  dashed  billows  on  the  rocks  below 

Rang  like  a  knell.     No  vessel  met  her  then ; 

They  lit  the  signal  lamp,  she  saw  it  not; 

They  fired  the  gun,  but  in  the  louder  roar 

Of  waters  it  was  drowned,  and  they  were  left 

Alone  to  struggle  with  the  warring  waves. 

A  cry  went  forth,  "  a  ship  was  on  the  rocks," 

And  hundreds  crowded  to  the  shore  to  aid 

The  suffering  crew,  and  fires  were  kindled  there, 

But  all  availed  not — not  a  man  was  saved. 

The  storm  went  swiftly  by ;  and  soon  the  winds 

Subsided,  and  the  western  sky  shone  out, 

And  light  glanced  o'er  the  waters.     On  a  reef, 

That  stretched  from  off  the  cliffs  along  that  shore, 

The  broken  wreck  lay  scattered ;  and  at  last 

One  and  another  corse  came  floating  up, 

But  none  were  saved.     They  wandered  o'er  the  sands; 

And  here  a  bale  lay  stranded;  there  an  oar, 

And  there  a  yard.     Just  as  the  cloud  had  flown 

Over  the  zenith,  and  the  moon  shone  out 

From  its  dark  bosom,  she  went  down  the  rocks, 

And  bent  her  trembling  steps  along  the  shore. 

The  moon  looked  out  in  sadness,  and  her  light 
Threw  a  faint  glimmering  on  the  broken  waves, 
And  paled  the  dying  watch-fires,  as  they  fell 
Flickering  away,  and  showed  the  fearful  looks 
Of  those  who  watched  the  wreck,  and  stood  to  save. 
The  waves  still  rolled  tremendously,  and  burst 


Loud  thundering  on  the  rocks  :  they  tossed  the  foam 
High  up  the  hills,  and  ploughed  the  moving  sands, 
Sweeping  the  fragments  /orth,  then  rushing  back 
With  a  devouring  strength,  that  cleared  the  shore. 
The  west  shone  fair;  the  evening  star  was  bright, 
And  many  glittering  stars  were  gathering  round, 
Set  in  a  deep,  dark  blue.     The  distant  hills 
Showed  faintly,  and  long  wreaths  of  mist  arose 
Curling  around  their  sides,  like  cottage  smoke 
Sent  from  the  hidden  valley  in  the  dawn. 
O'er  all  the  moon  presided,  and  her  face, 
Though  clear,  was  darkened,  and  it  filled  the  heart 
Of  the  beholder  with  a  silent  awe, 
And  a  cold  heavy  sadness.     On  the  sea 
Her  light  descended,  and  a  silver  wake 
Came  from  beneath  her  onward  to  the  shore, 
Crossing  the  bursting  waves.     The  cloud  still  lay 
Dark-rolling  in  the  east,  and  often  sent 
Pale  flashes  forth;  and  still  the  thunder  growled 
Fainter  and  fainter,  as  the  storm  moved  on 
Over  the  distant  ocean.     There  the  moon 
Lit  a  faint  bow,  that  spanned  the  cloud,  and  seemed 
Just  fading  into  darkness.     All  was  still, 
But  the  contending  waters,  and  the  drops, 
Now  trickling  from  the  forest  leaves,  were  heard 
Pattering  upon  the  grass  ;  and  as  a  sign 
That  a  sure  calm  had  come,  the  fire-fly  lit 
Its  lamp  along  the  meadows,  and  the  chirp 


36  J>ERCIVAL?S    POEMS. 

Of  the  green  locust  from  the  thicket  told 
How  tranquil  was  the  air.     A  solemn  fear 
Went  through  the  hearts  of  all,  as  they  surveyed 
The  corpses,  but  their  faces  all  were  strange. 
They  took  them  from  the  beach,  and  decently 
Conveyed  them  to  a  shelter,  there  to  wait 
The  last  sad  offices.     Alone  she  went 
Still  farther  on  the  shore,  until  she  came 
Where  a  long  reef  stood  out,  on  which  the  ship 
Was  broken ;  and  the  very  reef  where  he 
First  went  on  board,  despairing  and  resolved. 
One  feeling  led  her  onward,  and  sustained 
Her  wasted  body,  (which  was  sinking  fast 
Beneath  the  desperate  conflict,)  with  the  strength 
Of  madness,  and  her  easy  steps  betrayed  not 
The  woe  that  wrung  within  her.     She  had  seen 
Her  lover  standing  far  upon  that  reef; 
Had  seen  the  boat  go  there,  and  bear  him  off, 
And  as  the  ship  went  out  to  sea  had  fainted. 
Therefore  she  sought  that  reef,  with  a  wild  hope — 
Such  often  tokens  madness — that  she  there 
Might  find  him  safely  rescued.     She  now  stood 
On  the  projecting  rocks,  and  as  she  threw 
Her  dark  eye  downward  to  a  glimmering  cove,     • 
She  saw  him.     Lifted  by  the  swelling  wave, 
He  seemed  yet  living,  and  a  shrill  laugh  told 
Her  glad  but  wandering  spirit.     Down  she  leaped 
And  clasped  him ; — he  was  motionless  and  cold. 


37 


She  kissed  him,  but  he  opened  not  his  eyes, 

And  smiled  not.    Then  she  spake  the  much-loved  name, 

With  an  endearing  tone,  but  none  replied. 

"  Art  thou  not  living?  thou  wert  once  so  kind, 

Thy  smile  so  happy,  and  thy  kiss  so  warm; 

But  thou  art  cold  now,  and  thine  eye  darts  not 

Upon  me,  as  it  wont  to  do ;  thy  lips 

Move  not,  thou  hast  no  voice,  no  welcome  for  me." 

She  raised  her  head,  and  as  she  caught  the  moon 

Half  veiled  in  vapour,  from  her  glassy  eye 

The  tears  stole  down,  and  with  a  quivering  voice, 

Faint  as  a  night  wind  through  the  falling  leaves 

In  autumn,  "  It  is  over  then,"  she  spake; 

"  The  dream  is  over;  he  indeed  is  wrecked, 

As  I  had  fancied  long;  he  cannot  wake; 

This  is  not  sleep ;  there  is  no  life-blood  here ; 

No  flush  upon  his  forehead;  he  is  cold, 

And  will  not  wake  again.     He  said  to  me, 

Farewell,  perhaps  forever; — O!  too  true 

The  last  fond  words  at  parting; — but  forever — 

Ah !  no — I  meet  him — I  have  lingered  long — 

He  calls  me  on  my  journey — he  awaits  me, 

And  why  do  I  delay  ? — I  come,  my  love ; — 

Only  a  moment,  and  I  come,  my  love." 

Suddenly  she  sprang  forth,  with  outstretched  arms, 

And  a  wild  look,  that  told  there  was  no  hope ; 

A  few  short  steps,  she  paused,  and  then  sank  down, 

As  a  flower  sinks  upon  the  new-mown  turf, 


IB 


Beautiful  even  in  death.     They  came,  and  raised 
The  dying  girl.     Her  loose  locks  floated  wide; 
And  on  her  slender  neck  her  languid  head 
Drooped,  and  her  eyes  were  closed.      Her  lips  still 

moved 

With  the  last  breath,  and  then  were  still.     At  once 
Her  madness  was  no  more.     A  tender  smile 
Played  round  her,  and  her  looks  were  full  of  love 
And  gentleness,  such  'as  when  first  she  met, 
And  first  awoke  his  love.     She  long  had  borne 
The  conflict,  and  with  desperate  energy 
Been  nerved  to  all  endurance;  but  this  shock 
Subdued  her,  and  her  spirit  had  departed, 
And  well  they  knew  its  passage  was  in  peace. 
They  both  were  buried,  where  they  first  had  met, 
Beneath  one  stone,  and  they  were  wept  by  all. 
A  willow  grows  above  them,  with  its  boughs 
Drooping,  as  if  in  sorrow ;  and  at  night 
A  sweet  bird  sings  there,  and  the  village  girls 
Say  'tis  a  spirit's  voice.     They  dress  that  grave 
Each  Sabbath-day  with  roses;  and  they  strew 
Fresh  violets  there  on  May-day,  and  then  sing 
A  simple  tale  of  true  love,  till  their  hearts 
Are  swelling,  and  their  cheeks  are  bathed  in  tears. 
Love  knows  no  rank,  and  when  two  hearts  would  meet 
On  earth,  but  cannot,  they  will  meet  in  Heaven. 
All  hearts  that  love  are  equal  in  the  grave. 


PROMETHEUS, 


jfl 


AI2X.  IIPOM.  AESM. 

' 


| 


PROMETHEUS, 


PART  I. 


THEY  talk  of  love  and  pleasure— but  'tis  all 
A  tale  of  falsehood.     Life  is  made  of  gloom — 
The  fairest  scenes  are  clad  in  ruin's  pall, 
The  loveliest  pathway  leads  but  to  the  tomb; 
Alas!  destruction  is  man's  only  doom. 
We  rise,  and  sigh  our  little  lives  away, 
A  moment  blushes  beauty's  vernal  bloom, 
A  moment  brightens  manhood's  summer  ray, 
Then  all  is  wrapped  in  cold  and  comfortless  decay. 

And  yet  the  busy  insects  sweat  arid  toil, 
And  struggle  hard  to  heap  the  shining  ore- 
How  trifling  seems  their  bustle  and  turmoil, 
And  even  how  trifling  seems  the  sage's  lore; 
Even  he,  who  buried  in  the  classic  store 
Of  ancient  ages,  ponders  o'er  the  page 
Of  Tully  or  of  Plato,  does  no  more 
Than  with  his  bosom's  quiet  warfare  wage, 
And  in  an  endless  round  of  useless  thought  engage. 


42 

Then  close  thy  ponderous  folio,  and  retire 

To  shady  coverts,  undisturbed  retreats, 

And  lay  thy  careless  hand  upon  thy  lyre, 

And  call  the  muses  from  their  woodland  seats : 

But  ah !  the  Poet's  pulse  how  vainly  beats ; 

'Tis  but  vexation  to  attune  his  strings. 

Even  he,  who  with  the  Chian  bard  competes, 

Had  better  close  his  fancy's  soaring  wings, 

And  own,  earth's  highest  bliss  no  true  enjoyment  brings. 

We  find  this  earth  a  gloomy,  dull  abode, 
And  yet  we  wish  for  pleasure — sense  is  keen. 
And  so  this  life  is  but  a  toilsome  road, 
That  leads  us  to  a  more  delightful  scene: 
Well,  if  tliou  find'st  a  solace  there,  I  ween, 
It  is  the  only  joy  thou  e'er  can'st  know; 
And  yet  it  is  but  fancy,  never  seen 
By  mortal  eye  was  all  that  lovely  show, 
That  paradise  where  we  so  fondly  wish  to  go. 

We  have  a  body — and  the  wintry  wind 

Will  not  respect  the  Poet.     No  5  the  storm 

Beats  heavy  on  the  case  that  holds  a  mind 

Of  heavenly  mould,  as  on  the  vulgar  form ; 

When  bleak  winds  blow  how  can  the  soul  be  warm? 

Can  fancy  brighten  in  the  cell  of  care? 

Can  inspiration's  breath  the  soul  inform, 

When  the  limbs  shiver  in  the  gusty  air, 

And  in  the  thin,  pale  face  the  fiends  of  hunger  stare? 


O  !  they  may  tell  me  of  the  ethereal  flame 
That  burns  and  burns  forever; — 'tis  the  dream 
Of  those  high  intellects,  who  well  may  claim 
Relation  to  the  pure,  celestial  beam: 
The  life  eternal — 'tis  a  glorious  theme, 
Whereon  bards,  sages,  have  out-poured  their  fire ; 
Yet  view  it  narrowly,  and  it  will  seem 
But  the  wild  mounting  of  unquenched  desire, 
The  long  extended  wish  to  raise  our  being  higher. 

True — 'tis  a  mighty  stretch,  when  unconfined 

The  soul  expatiates  in  imagined  being, 

And  where  the  vulgar  eye  can  only  find 

Dust,  by  a  second  sight  strange  visions  seeing, 

And  still  from  wonder  on  to  wonder  fleeing, 

By  its  enkindled  feelings  wildly  driven, 

It  leaps  the  walls  of  earth,  but  ill  agreeing 

With  those  high-mounting  thoughts  to  genius  given, 

Nor  rests  till  it  has  set  its  eagle-foot  in  heaven. 

And  there  it  culls  the  choicest  fields  of  earth 

For  all  the  pure,  and  beautiful,  and  bright, 

And  gives  a  gay  and  odorous  Eden  birth, 

And  rains  around  a  flood  of  golden  light, 

Where  sun,  moon,  stars,  no  more  awake  the  sight, 

But  pouring  from  the  Eternal's  viewless  throne, 

It  fills  us  with  ineffable  delight, 

And  every  stain  of  earth  forever  flown, 

We  bathe  and  bask  in  this  ethereal  fount  alone. 


44 

And  flowers  of  every  hue  and  scent  are  there; 

The  laughing  fields  are  one  enamelled  bed, 

And  filled  with  sweetness  breathes  the  fanning  air, 

And  soaring  birds  are  singing  overhead, 

And  bubbling  brooks,  by  living  fountains  fed, 

O'er  pebbled  gems  and  pearl  sands  winding  play; 

One  boundless  beauty  o'er  creation  shed, 

The  storm,  the  cloud,  the  mist,  have  hied  away, 

And  nothing  dims  the  blaze  of  this  immortal  day. 

And  man,  a  pure  and  quenchless  beam  of  light, 

All  eye,  all  ear,  all  feeling,  reason,  soul, 

He  takes  from  good  to  good  his  tireless  flight, 

And  ever  aiming  at  perfection's  goal, 

Sees  at  one  instant-glance  the  moral  whole ; 

Powers  ever  kindling,  always  on  the  wing, 

The  disembodied  spark  Prometheus  stole, 

To  science,  virtue,  love,  devotion  spring 

His  fancy,  reason,  heart — creation's  angel  king. 

The  whole  machine  of  worlds  before  his  eye 

Unfolded  as  a  map,  he  glances  through 

Systems  in  moments,  sees  the  comet  fly 

In  its  clear  orbit  through  the  fields  of  blue, 

And  every  instant  gives  him  something  new, 

Whereon  his  ever  quenchless  thirst  he  feeds; 

From  star  to  insect,  sun  to  falling  dew, 

From  atom  to  the  immortal  mind  he  speeds, 

And  in  the  glow  of  thought  the  boundless  volume  reads. 


45 

Truth  stands  before  him  in  a  full,  clear  blaze, 

An  intellectual  sun-beam,  and  his  eye 

Can  look  upon  it  with  unbending  gaze, 

And  its  minutest  lineaments  descry; 

No  speck,  nor  line  is  passed  unnoticed  by, 

And  the  bright  form  perfection's  image  wears, 

And  on  its  forehead  sceptred  majesty 

The  calm,  but  awful  port  of  justice  bears,      (she  spares. 

Who  weeps,  when  she  condemns,  but  smiles  not,  when 

Mercy  !  thou  dearest  attribute  of  heaven, 
The  attractive  charm,  the  smile  of  Deity, 
To  whom  the  keys  of  Paradise  are  given — 
Thy  glance  is  love,  thy  brow  benignity, 
And  bending  o'er  the  world  with  tender  eye, 
Thy  bright  tears  fall  upon  our  hearts  like  dew, 
And  melting  at  the  call  of  clemency, 
We  raise  to  God  again  our  earth-fixed  view, 
And  in  our  bosom  glows  the  living  fire  anew. 

The  perfect  sense  of  beauty — how  the  heart, 
Even  in  this  low  estate,  with  transport  swells, 
When  Nature's  charms  at  once  upon  us  start — 
The  ocean's  roaring  waste,  where  grandeur  dwells, 
The  cloud-girt  mountain,  whose  bald  summit  tells, 
Beneath  a  pure  black  sky  the  faintest  star, 
The  flowery  maze  of  woods,  and  hills,  and  dells, 
The  bubbling  brook,  the  cascade  sounding  far, 
Robed  in  a  mellow  mist,  as  Evening  mounts  her  car, 


40 

And  with  her  glowing  pencil  paints  the  skies 

In  hues,  transparent,  melting,  deep,  and  clear. 

The  richest  picture  shown  to  mortal  eyes, 

And  lovelier  when  a  dearer  self  is  near, 

And  we  can  whisper  in  her  bending  ear, 

"  How  fair  are  these,  and  yet  how  fairer  thou," 

And  pleased  the  artless  flattery  to  hear, 

Her  full  blue  eyes  in  meek  confusion  bow — 

That  hour,  that  look,  that  eye,  are  living  to  me  now 

But  there  the  cloud  of  earth-born  passion  gone. 
Taste,  quick,  correct,  exalted,  raised,  refined, 
Rears  o'er  the  subject  intellect  her  throne, 
The  pure  platonic  extacy  of  mind ; 
By  universal  harmony  defined, 
It  feels  the  fitness  of  each  tint  and  hue, 
Of  every  tone  that  breathes  along  the  wind, 
Of  every  motion,  form,  that  charm  the  view, 
And  lives  upon  the  grand,  the  beautiful,  and  new. 

The  feelings  of  the  heart  retain  their  sway, 

But  are  ennobled — not  the  instinctive  tie, 

The  storge,  that  so  often  leads  astray, 

And  poisons  all  the  springs  of  infancy, 

So  that,  thenceforth,  to  live  is  but  to  die, 

And  linger  with  a  venom  at  the  heart. 

To  feel  the  sinking  of  despondency, 

To  writhe  around  the  early  planted  dart, 

And  burn  and  pant  with  thirst  that  never  can  depart. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  47 

Such  are  the  wounds  indulgent  parents  give, 

Who  slay  the  smiling  blossom  of  their  love  ; 

And  if  the  blighted  plant  should  lingering  live. 

The  spirit  cannot  wing  its  flight  above, 

But  in  its  restless  agony  will  rove 

Still  on  and  onward  in  forbidden  joy, 

Till  wildly,  as  a  whirlwind's  fury  drove, 

He  rushes  to  the  foes  that  soon  destroy, 

And  then  they  weep,  and  curse  their  lost,  deluded  boy. 

His  friendship  warmed  to  love — all  things,  that  feel, 

In  all  his  tenderness  of  feeling  share ; 

His  love,  bright  as  devotion's  holiest  zeal, 

For  sex,  without  its  ill,  has  being  there; 

All  pleasure's  smile  and  virtue's  beauty  wear, 

And  kindred  souls  in  dear  communion  blend, 

Love,  purest  love,  without  its  sigh  and  care, 

And  hand  in  hand  their  mounting  way  they  wend, 

With  hope  that  meets  no  chill,  and  joys  that  never  end. 

Devotion — 'tis  an  all-absorbing  flame — 

The  Omnipotent,  all-perfect,  endless  Being, 

The  builder  of  the  universal  frame, 

At  one  quick  glance,  past,  present,  future,  seeing, 

By  whom,  hot,  cold,  moist,  dry,  good,  ill,  agreeing, 

At  last,  the  perfect  birth  of  bliss  comes  forth, 

And  evil  to  its  native  darkness  fleeing, 

Virtue  shines  out  in  her  unspotted  worth, 

And  blasts  to  meanest  dust  the  proudest  forms  of  earth. 


48  VEIICIVAL'S  POEMS. 

Hark — hear  the  holy  choir  around  the  throne; 

Their  lips  are  coals,  their  paeans  vocal  fire  ; 

They  sing  the  Eternal  Lord,  who  sits  alone, 

And  still  their  swelling  anthem  rises  higher, 

The  warbling  of  the  universal  lyre, 

The  harmony  of  hearts,  and  souls,  and  spheres — 

O !  how  my  bosom  burns  with  long  desire, 

How  flow  my  bitter,  penitential  tears; 

O !  'tis  a  strain  too  loud  and  sweet  for  mortal  ears. 

But  stop,  delirious  fancy  !  now  awaking 

From  thy  enchanted  dream,  what  meets  thy  sight  ? 

The  charmed  spell,  that  bound  thy  senses,  breaking, 

Thy  Eden  withers  in  a  simoom's  blight, 

And  all  its  suns  have  set  in  endless  night; 

Love,  sanctity,  and  glory,  all  a  gleam, 

Thy  airy  paradise  has  vanished  quite, 

And  falling,  fading,  flickering,  dies  life's  beam, 

Thy  visioned  heaven  has  fled — alas !  'twas  but  a  dream ! 

O !  for  those  early  days,  when  patriarchs  dwelt 

In  pastoral  tents,  that  rose  beneath  the  palm, 

When  life  was  pure,  and  every  bosom  felt 

Unwarped  affection's  sweetest,  holiest  bairn, 

And  like  the  silent  scene  around  them,  calm, 

Years  stole  along  in  one  unruffled  flow; 

Their  hearts  aye  warbled  with  devotion's  psalm, 

And  as  they  saw  their  buds  around  them  blow, 

Their  keenly  glistening  eye  revealed  the  grateful  glow. 


49 

They  sat  at  evening,  when  their  gathered  flocks 
Bleated  and  sported  by  the  palm-crowned  well, 
The  sun  was  glittering  on  the  pointed  rocks, 
And  long  and  wide  the  deepening  shadows  fell; 
They  sang  their  hymn,  and  in  a  choral  swell 
They  raised  their  simple  voices  to  the  Power, 
Who  smiled  along  the  fair  sky ;  they  would  dwell 
Fondly  and  deeply  on  his  praise  ;  that  hour     (shower. 
Was  to  them,  as  to  flowers  that  droop  and  fade,  the 

He  warmed  them  in  the  sunbeams,  and  they  gazed 

In  wonder  on  that  kindling  fount  of  light, 

And  as,  hung  in  the  glowing  west,  it  blazed 

In  brighter  glories,  with  a  full  delight 

They  poured  their  pealing  anthem,  and  when  night 

Lifted  her  silver  forehead,  and  the  moon 

Rolled  through  the  blue  serenity,  in  bright 

But  softer  radiance,  they  blessed  the  boon  (noon. 

That  gave  those  hours  the  charm  without  the  fire  of 

Spring  of  the  living  world,  the  dawn  of  nature, 
When  Man  walked  forth  the  lord  of  all  below, 
Erect  and  godlike  in  his  giant  stature, 
Before  the  tainted  gales  of  vice  Jgan  blow ; 
His  conscience  spotless  as  the  new-fallen  snow, 
Pure  as  the  crystal  spouting  from  the  spring, 
He  aimed  no  murderous  dagger,  drew  no  bow, 
But  at  the  soaring  of  the  eagle's  wing,  (spring. 

The   gaunt  wolf's  stealthy  step,    the  lion's  ravening 

7 


50 

With  brutes  alone  he  armed  himself  for  war ; 

Free  to  the  winds  his  long  locks  dancing  flew, 

And  at  his  prowling  enemy  afar, 

He  shot  his  death-shaft  from  the  nervy  yew; 

In  morning's  mist  his  shrill-voiced  bugle  blew, 

And  with  the  rising  sun  on  tall  rocks  strode, 

And  bounding  through  the  gemmed  and  sparkling  dew, 

The  rose  of  health,  that  in  his  full  cheek  glowed,  (flowed. 

Told  of  the  pure,  fresh  stream,  that  there  enkindling 

This  was  the  age,  when  mind  was  all  on  fire, 
The  day  of  inspiration,  when  the  soul, 
Warmed,  heightened,  lifted,  burning  with  desire 
For  all  the  great  and  lovely,  to  the  goal 
Of  man's  essential  glory  rushed ;  then  stole 
The  sage  his  spark  from  heaven,  the  prophet  spake 
His  deep-toned  words  of  thunder,  as  when  roll 
The  peals  amid  the  clouds — words  that  would  break 
The  spirit's  leaden  sleep,  and  all  its  terrors  wake. 

He  stood  on  Sinai,  wrapped  in  storm-clouds,  wild 
His  loose  locks  streamed  around  him,  and  his  eye 
Flashed  indignation  on  a  world  defiled 
With  sense  and  slavery,  who  lost  the  high 
Prerogative  of  power  and  spirit,  by 
Their  longings  for  their  flesh-pots — O!  'tis  lust, 
Which  robs  us  of  our  freedom,  makes  us  lie 
Wallowing  in  willing  wretchedness,  nor  burst      (curst. 
That  thraldom,  of  our  woes,  most  foul,  most  hard,  most 


^.EKUlVALi  S     ±*U1SMS.  51 

He  saw  those  Samsons  by  a  harlot  shorn, 

He  saw  theni  take  the  distaff,  and  assume 

The  soft  and  tawdry  tunics,  which  adorn 

The  leering  siren ;  all  their  flush  and  bloom. 

And  might  and  vigour,  all  that  can  illume 

And  blazon  manhood,  by  the  magic  rod 

Of  pleasure  changed  to  weakness,  squalor,  gloom, 

And  they,  who  erst  with  port  majestic  trod,     (gic  nod. 

Then  drunk,  and  gorged,  and  numbed,  in  sleep  lethar- 

He  stood  and  raised  his  mighty  voice  in  wrath, 
And  sent  it,  like  a  whirlwind,  o'er  those  ears, 
And  thrilled  them,  like  a  simoom  on  its  path 
Of  havoc.     See,  the  slumbering  giant  hears, 
And  waked,  and  roused,  and  kindled  by  his  fears, 
Starts  into  new  life  with  an  instant  spring; 
This  is  no  time  for  soft  repentant  tears; 
At  once  away  their  wine-drenched  spoils  they  fling, 
Their  energy  is  up,  their  souls  are  on  the  wing. 

They  did  not  lie,  and  wish,  and  long  to  break 
The  manacles  which  clasped  them;  they  did  tear 

Cables  as  we  would  silk-threads,  and  did  take 
| 

An  upward  journey,  where  the  world  shines  fair, 

The  temple  of  true  virtue,  glory,  where 

Man  lives  and  glows  in  sunshine,  where  the  prize, 

More  rich  than  laurel  wreaths,  for  all,  who  dare 

To  reason's  perfect,  fearless  freedom  rise,  (eyes. 

Sends  forth  bright  beams,  that  dim  and  blind  all  meaner 


52 

Go  o'er  the  fields  of  Greece  and  see  her  towers 

Fallen,  and  torn,  and  crumbled — see  her  fanes 

Prostrate  and  weed-encircled;  dimly  lours 

Brute  ignorance  around  them,  slavery  reigns 

And  lords  it  o'er  their  sacred  cities,  chains 

Are  riveted  upon  them,  and  they  gall  (strains 

Their  cramped  limbs  to  the  bone,  the  lashed  wretch 

To  rend  the  gnawing  iron — but  his  fall 

Is  in  himself — sleep  on — ye  well  deserve  your  thrall. 

This  is  the  old  age  of  our  fallen  race ; 

We  mince  in  steps  correct,  but  feeble;  creep 

By  rule  unwavering  in  a  tortoise  pace; 

We  do  not,  like  the  new-born  ancient,  leap 

At  once  o'er  mind's  old  barriers,  but  we  keep 

Drilling  and  shaving  down  the  wall;  we  play 

With  stones,  and  shells,  and  flowers,  and  as  we  peep 

In  nature's  outward  folds,  like  infants,  say, 

How  bright,  and  clear,  and  pure,  our  intellectual  day. 

We  let  gorged  despots  rise  and  plant  their  foot 

Upon  our  prostrate  necks,  if  they  but  give 

Their  golden  counters.     Tyranny  takes  root 

In  a  rich  soil  of  sloth  and  self — we  live 

Like  oysters  in  their  closed  shells — can  we  strive 

For  freedom  when  this  cobweb  circle  draws 

Its  tangling  coils  around  us?  let  us  give 

Our  hearts  to  Nature  and  her  sacred  laws,          (cause. 

And  we  can  fight  unharmed,  unchecked  in  freedom's 


There  are  a  few  grand  spirits  who  can  feel 

The  beauty  of  simplicity,  and  pour 

Their  ardent  wishes  forth,  and  sternly  deal 

Their  crumbling  blows  around  them;  they  would  soar, 

Where  man  unfettered  rises,  proudly  o'er 

The  common  herd  of  slaves  to  power  and  rule : 

Go,  search  the  world,  you  cannot  find  a  more 

Weak,  drivelling  subject  for  a  despot's  tool, 

Than  him  who  dares  not  leave  the  lessons  of  his  school. 

Cast  back  your  sickened  eye  upon  the  dawn 

Of  Greek  and  Roman  freedom — See  their  sons 

Before  the  bulwark  of  their  dear  rights  drawn, 

Proud  in  their  simple  dignity,  as  runs 

The  courser  to  the  fair  stream — on  their  thrones 

They  sat,  all  kings,  all  people — they  were  free$ 

For  they  were  strong  and  temperate,  and  in  tones 

Deep  and  canorous,  nature's  melody, 

They  sung  in  one  full  voice  the  hymn  of  liberty. 

In  Dorian  mood  they  marched  to  meet  their  foesj 

With  measured  step  their  awful  front  they  bore, 

As  when  a  mountain  billow  slowly  flows, 

Rising  and  heaving  onward  to  the  shore, 

It  rolls  its  mingled  waters  with  a  roar, 

That  echoes  through  the  mountains ;  wide  they  dash, 

Blue  as  the  heavens  they  kiss,  and  tumbling  o'er, 

They  burst  upon  the  coast,  and  foaming  lash      (crash. 

The  rocks  and  splintered  cliffs,  Earth  groans  beneath  the 


54 

Then  liberty  and  law  were  brightest — men 

Were  not  themselves — the  city  was  their  soul; 

They  did  not  keep  their  treasures  in  a  den, 

And  brood  them,  as  a  fowl  her  eggs — the  pole 

To  which  their  hearts  were  pointed,  and  the  goal 

Of  all  their  strivings  was  the  public  good ; 

The  sage,  with  naked  brow  and  flowing  stole, 

And  snowy  beard,  and  eye  majestic,  stood, 

And  gave  to  willing  minds  their  high  but  simple  food. 

It  was  not  cates  which  pleased  then — but  they  drew. 
And  filled  their  brimming  goblet  from  the  stream, 
And  plucked  the  fruits  that  overhung  it;  few 
But  noble  were  their  works — the  living  beam 
Of  sun-light  stamped  their  pages — we  may  dream 
Of  monsters,  till  the  brain  is  mad — the  pure, 
Bright  images,  wherewith  their  volumes  teem, 
The  taste  of  nature  always  will  allure,  (endure. 

And  while  man  reads  and  thinks,  and  feels  and  loves, 


Then  wisdom  crowned  her  head  with  stars,  and  smiled 

In  Socrates,  and  glowed  in  Plato,  shone 

Like  Day's  God  in  the  Stagyrite,  who  piled 

A  pyramid  of  high  thoughts  ;  as  a  throne, 

It  lorded  o'er  the  world  for  ages ;  grown 

Weak  in  a  second  childhood,  they  did  count 

And  nicely  measure  each  minutest  stone, 

And  crawled  around  the  base,  but  could  not  mount 

And  taste,  upon  the  top,  the  pure  ethereal  fount. 


55 

Then  Eloquence  was  power — it  was  the  burst 
Of  feeling,  clothed  in  words  o'erwhelming,  poured 
From  mind's  long  cherished  treasury,  and  nurst 
By  virtue  into  Majesty ;  it  soared 
And  thundered  in  Pericles ;  and  was  stored 
With  fire  that  flashed,  and  kindled,  in  that  soul, 
Who  called,  when  Philip,  with  barbarian  horde, 
Hung  over  Athens,  and  prepared  to  roll  (whole. 

His  deluge  on  her  towers,  and  drown  her  freedom's 

Then  Poetry  was  inspiration — loud, 

And  sweet,  and  rich,  in  speaking  tones  it  rung, 

As  if  a  choir  of  muses  from  a  cloud, 

Sun-kindled,  on  the  bright  horizon  hung; 

Their  voices  harmonized,  their  lyres  full  strung, 

Rolled  a  deep  descant  o'er  a  listening  world — 

There  was  a  force,  a  majesty,  when  sung 

The  bard  of  Troy — his  living  thoughts  were  hurled, 

Like  lightnings,  when  the  folds  of  tempests  are  unfurled. 

Was  it  the  tumult  of  contending  powers, 

The  clash  of  swords  and  shields,  the  rush  of  cars, 

Or  when  aloft  in  night's  serenest  hours, 

The  moon,  encircled  by  her  train  of  stars, 

Poured  her  soft  light  around,  and  dewy  airs       (brow  ; 

Breathed  through  the  camp  and  cooled  the  warrior's 

Was  it  the  mellow  slumber,  which  repairs 

The  languid  limbs,  or  keen-edged  words,  that  bow 

The  soul  in  wondering  awe ;  or  was  it,  round  the  prow, 


GU  Pi-h  POK-HS. 

The  purple  wave  disparting,  and  in  foam 

Roaring  behind  the  vessel,  as  she  flew, 

A  white-winged  falcon,  from  her  lessening  home. 

Ploughing1  the  sea's  broad  back,  as  loudly  blew 

The  winds  among  the  cordage — Nature  threw 

Her  energy  athwart  his  page,  and  shed 

Her  blaie  upon  his  mind,  and  there  we  view, 

If.  chance,  by  taste,  unwarped,  unfettered,  led, 

A  new-made  world,  all  life  and  light,  around  us  spread. 

The  times  are  altered — man  is  now  no  more 

The  being  of  his  capabilities  ; 

The  days  of  all  his  energy  are  o'er: 

And  will  those  fallen  demi-gods  arise 

In  all  their  panoply,  and  hear  the  cries 

Of  king-crushed  myriads,  who  wear  the  chain 

Of  bondage:  will  light  dawn  upon  their  ey    . 

And  wake  them  from  their  iron  sleep,  again 

To  bear  their  breast  in  strife  on  freedom's  holy  plain  : 

A  trumpet  echoes  o'er  their  tombs — awake! 

The  long  full  peal  is  4i  vengeance ! — sleep  no  more ;?' 

The  marble  walls,  as  by  an  earthquake,  break, 

And.  lo!  an  armed  legion  onward  pour 

Bright  casques  and  nodding  plumes,  and  thir-ting  gore, 

The  blood  of  awe-struck  tyrants,  flash  their  swords; 

Their  march  is  as  a  torrent  rivers  roar, 

And  with  a  waked  slave's  desperation,  towards 

Their  homes  of  icy  gloom,  they  drive  Sarmatia's  hordes. 


There  is  a  flood  of  light  rolled  round  the  hill 

Of  Jove,  and  from  its  cloudy  brightness  spring 

Spectres  of  long-departed  greatness;   still 

Their  heart-felt  homage  to  that  shrine  they  bring, 

Which  time  has  made  all-sacred,  where  the  king 

Of  thunder  sat  upon  his  ivory  throne, 

And  by  him  stood  his  bird,  with  ready  wing 

To  pounce  upon  his  foes.     The  days  are  flown,   (own, 

When  darkness  ruled  as  God — Valour  will  claim  his 

And  Rome  again  is  free,  and  from  thy  shore, 
Italia!   Gaul,  and  Goth,  and  Hun,  shall  fly: 
Thy  sons  shall  wash  away  their  shame  in  srore. 
And  once  again  the  year  of  liberty, 

The  mighty  months  of  glory,  they  shall  see. 

~ 
Along  thy  radiant  Zodiac,  on  the  path 

Of  ages,  warn  the  nations.  ••  we  are  free" — 
O!  who  can  tell  the  madness  and  the  wrath, 
The  drunkenness  of  soul,  a  new-waked  people  hath : 

They  stand  for  hearth  and  altar,  wife  and  sire : 

Their  lisping  infants  call  them  to  the  light, 

And  as  they  call,  their  eye-balls  flashing  fire, 

And  shouting  with  a  courser's  wild  delight, 

W  hen  loosed  he  bounds  and  prances  in  the  might 

Ot  young  life.     There  is  in  the  sound  of  home 

A  magic,  and  the  patriot,  in  his  right 

Strong-founded,  meets  the  prowline  foes,  that  come 

To  waste  his  land — no  threats  hi*  valour  can  benumb, 


58 

The  torch  that  lights  him  in  his  high  career, 

Was  kindled  at  the  purest,  holiest  flame ; 

He  fights  for  all  his  bosom  holds  most  dear, 

And  O  !  no  voice  so  conquering  as  the  claim 

Of  filial  tenderness  and  love ;  no  name 

So  melting  as  sire,  wife,  and  children — all 

Are  in  those  sweet  words  blended.     What  is  fame, 

Though  pealing  with  her  trumpet,  to  the  call 

Of  kindred,  bound  and  toiling  in  a  tyrant's  thrall  ? 

He  sees  the  noble  and  the  learned  stoop, 

And  kiss  the  feet  that  crush  them,  and  the  crowd, 

In  hopeless,  cureless,  willing  bondage,  droop  ; 

And  yet  he  does  not  shrink  beneath  that  cloud, 

But,  muttering  execrations  deep,  not  loud, 

He  whets  his  sword  upon  his  heaped-up  wrong ; 

And  starting,  like  a  spectre  from  his  shroud, 

Stung  by  the  lash  of  slavery's  knotted  thong, 

In  all  the  might  of  wrath,  he  hurls  his  strength  along. 

Even  as  a  tigress,  when  her  secret  lair 

The  hunter  hath  invaded — how  she  draws 

Her  limbs  to  all  their  tenseness,  points  her  hair, 

Gnashes  her  grinding  teeth,  and  bares  her  claws, 

And  breathes  a  stifled  growl,  and  in  a  pause 

Of  burning  fury  hangs  upon  the  spring : 

And  nerved  and  heated  in  a  parent's  cause, 

Bounds  roaring  on  the  robber,  like  the  wing        (sling. 

Of  pouncing  hawk,  or  stone  hurled  whizzing  from  the 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  59 

They  meet  at  Tivoli — and  night  has  spread 

Her  curtain  o'er  those  legions,  who  would  quench 

The  flame,  that  Brutus,  Tully,  Cato,  fed; 

And  from  its  lofty  column  madly  wrench 

The  new-raised  statue.     Freemen  will  not  blench, 

When  they  have  broke  their  fetters ;  but  will  arm 

Their  nervy  hands  with  vengeance,  and  will  clench 

And  grapple  with  their  masters ;  for  the  charm 

Of  liberty's  sweet  voice  the  coldest  heart  will  warm. 

They  meet,  and  they  are  victors — but  the  soul, 

Like  his  own  mountain's  lava  glowing,  dies, 

And  falls  with  hand  firm-grasped  upon  the  goal 

Of  all  his  longings.     As  he  mounts  the  skies, 

He  drops  his  mantle  on  the  youth,  who  rise 

To  give  their  lives,  like  him,  to  liberty  ; 

Devoted  to  the  noblest  sacrifice, 

Like  stars  of  purest  brightness,  they  shall  be    (shall  flee. 

The  rallying  point,  where  all  the  bruised  and  crushed 

A  dream — a  cruel  dream — fair  rose  the  sun 

Of  freedom  on  that  sky  without  a  cloud ; 

Sweet  was  the  dawn,  when  liberty  was  won 

By  hands  unweaponed ;  and  they  hasted,  proud 

Of  bloodless  conquest,  in  their  paeans  loud 

To  those,  who  Samson-like  had  rent  their  chain ; 

Then  heavenward  shone  the  foreheads,  which  had  bowed 

To  foreign  rule  for  ages,  and  again 

The  people's  majesty  towered  over  hill  and  plain. 


b'O  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

And  we  did  hope  the  Roman  had  awaked, 

And  ancient  valour  had  revived  anew, 

And  that  the  Eagle's  thirst  of  light  unslaked, 

As  when  above  the  capitol  she  flew, 

Still  sought  her  eyry  in  the  boundless  blue  ; 

And  we  did  hope  a  spirit  had  gone  forth, 

Which  tyrants  and  their  parasites  would  rue, 

And,  like  a  torrent  rolling  to  the  north,  (worth. 

Would  with  it  blend  all  hearts,  that  kept  man's  native 

It  seemed  the  renovation  of  the  world, 
The  knell  of  despots,  and  the  day  when  thrones 
Were  tottering,  and  crowns  falling,  when  Kings,  hurled 
From  their  base  height  of  lust,  should  leave  their  bones 
To  moulder  in  their  feudal  filth  ;  the  stones 
Which  bound  the  arch  of  empire,  lost  their  hold, 
And  in  the  sudden  crush  were  heard  the  groans 
Of  gorged  and  pampered  spoilers,  who  had  rolled 
Like  havoc  on  the  dumb,  weak  tremblers  of  their  fold. 

And  we  did  see  a  nation  on  their  way 

To  stop  the  invading  torrent,  ere  it  came 

And  deluged  their  fair  fields.     It  was  a  day 

Of  breathless  expectation,  when  the  flame 

Of  freedom  burned  the  highest,  for  the  game 

Of  Man's  emancipation  was  at  stake. 

The  heart  that  would  not  throb  then,  had  no  claim 

And  place  in  Honor's  column — 'twould  not  wake, 

Even  if  a  bolt  from  Heaven  should  by  its  pillow  break. 


(31 

They  hung  upon  the  mountains,  like  a  storm 
Crowning  the  Appenine  with  deep,  dun  shade, 
And  o'er  them  towered  the  bold  and  ardent  form, 
Who  seemed  in  panoply  of  fire  arrayed ; 
And  from  their  pikes  and  bayonets  there  played 
A  stream  of  lightnings  on  the  advancing  host, 
Which,  trained  and  nurtured  in  the  murdering  trade, 
Like  tempest-billows  rolling  to  the  coast,  (post. 

Marched  slow,  and  still,  and  sure,  to  storm  that  rocky 

In  all  the  discipline  of  war  they  came ; 

Their  strong  squared  columns  moved  with  heavy  tread ; 

Their  step,  their  bearing,  even  their  breath  the  same, 

And  not  a  murmur  whispered  through  the  dead 

And  boding  silence ;  by  a  master  led, 

Even  as  a  rock,  that  fronts  the  infuriate  wave, 

They  saw  them  hanging  on  their  mountain's  head; 

With  cold,  proud  sneer  they  marked  the  untutored  brave, 

And  knew  here  lay  wide-yawned  Italian  freedom's  grave. 

Secure  and  calm,  they  pitched  their  camp,  and  piled 

Their  arms,  and  furled  their  banners;  all  was  still, 

When,  like  the  bursting  of  a  hail-cloud,  wild 

Those  sun-fired  legions  hurried  down  the  hill, 

And  dashed  against  their  robbers,  with  a  will 

To  do  all  deeds  of  daring,  and  a  might 

Nerved  into  madness  by  those  wrongs,  that  fill 

The  heart  to  overflowing;  from  that  height, 

In  one  wild  rush,  they  poured  their  souls  into  the  fight. 


Awhile  the  Austrian  wavered,  for  the  blows 

Fell  with  a  giant's  vigour;  but  the  clear, 

Quick-sighted  leader  bade  their  stretched  wings  close. 

And  circle  in  the  headlong  swarms;  then  fear 

Usurped  the  seat  of  courage ;  far  and  near 

The  plain  was  covered  with  the  flying  bands. 

In  vain  the  patriot's  effort,  word,  and  tear, 

His  life's  blood  only  drenched  his  country's  sands, 

Or  stained  with  fruitless  drops  the  brute  invader's  hands. 

The  invading  wave  rolls  on — no  arm  is  raised 

To  stem  its  ceaseless  progress;  in  its  flood 

It  swallows  all  the  hopes,  on  which  men  gazed 

With  such  deep  yearnings,  as  when  linnets  brood 

Their  callow  nestlings — they  are  now  the  food 

Of  sceptered  ribaldry  and  regal  sneers ; 

Well,  let  them  laugh  and  revel  in  light  mood — 

A  voice  of  wrath,  ere  long,  will  thrill  their  ears, 

And  give  them  doubly  full  their  cup  of  blood  and  tears. 

Fosterers  of  nations !  whose  parental  hand 
Scourges  the  unwilling  subject  to  obey, 
To  you,  ye  self-misnomered  holy  band, 
The  goaded  slaves  their  stripes  and  wounds  shall  pay; 
Though  now  their  heads  in  child-like  fear  they  lay, 
They  keenly  feel  the  smart  of  all  their  wrong ; 
They  now  may  stoop  and  crawl,  there  is  a  day 
When  they  will  rise  and  to  their  vengeance  throng; 
Even  now  ye  trembling  dread  what  will  not  linger  long. 


63 

Aceldema  of  nations !  thou  hast  bled 

From  countless  gashes — thou  must  still  bleed  on; 

Thy  children's  gore  that  harvest-field  has  fed, 

Where  thou  thy  chains  and  manacles  hast  won ; 

Thy  struggle  for  true  liberty  is  done, 

France,  Italy,  have  roused  and  burst  their  thrall, 

And  started  in  that  glorious  race  to  run — 

Where  have  their  high  words  ended?   See  their  fall — 

The  despots  crush  them  now,  and  say,  "  So  perish  all 

Who  will  not  sleep  contented,  while  we  rule, 

And  fleece,  and  flay  them ;"  you  may  writhe  and  turn, 

And  curse  them,  as  you  crouch,  their  earth-pressed  stool ; 

Yes,  ye  may  start  a  moment,  spring  and  spurn 

The  foot  that  treads  you ;  ye  may  glow  and  burn 

With  wrath  to  be  so  scoffed  at,  but  a  weight 

Like  mountains  bows  you  down;   dust  is  your  urn; 

The  spirit  is  besotted — this  your  fate, 

To  rise  and  stumble,  kneel  and  kiss  the  hand  you  hate. 

One  storm  has  come  and  gone — the  film  is  torn 

From  off  your  eyes — you  look,  and  Power  is  there ; 

Around  his  throne  unnumbered  shields  are  borne, 

Serried  in  close  array;  you  cannot  tear 

The  monster  from  his  pinnacle;  his  lair 

Is  filled  with  bones  of  freemen  he  has  slain. 

As  a  crouched  lion,  when  his  fangs  are  bare, 

He  casts  around  his  keen  eye ;  Hope  in  vain 

Lifts  up  her  gaze,  his  glance  bends  it  to  earth  again. 


64 

Freedom  can  have  no  dwelling  on  that  shore ; 

She  must  away  and  cross  the  Atlantic  flood : 

Why  play  the  rude  game  over?  you  may  pour 

In  waves,  like  torrent  rivers,  your  best  blood, 

But  it  will  end  in  "  we  have  dared  and  stood 

In  battle  for  our  rights;  we  sink  again 

Before  an  overwhelming  weight,  the  food 

Of  tyrants  and  their  parasites,  who  drain  (chain." 

Our  tears  like  wine,  and  bind  with  doubled  links  our 

Severe  and  simple,  walked  the  Cyprian  sage 

In  Athens'  pictured  porch ;  he  showed  and  taught 

Unbending  virtue  in  a  downward  age, 

And  reckoned  all  the  joys  of  sense  as  nought, 

And  mastered  down  the  tide  of  swelling  thought, 

And  bound  on  passion  an  unyielding  rein ; 

With  slow,  sure  step,  the  highest  good  he  sought, 

And  shunning,  as  a  viper's  tooth,  the  stain 

Of  weakness,  marched  erect  to  truth's  majestic  fane. 

Which  stood  aloft  in  Doric  plainness,  bright 
The  sun-beams  played  upon  its  marble  pride, 
And  from  it  flashed  a  stream  of  purest  light 
Down  its  ascending  path — as  rolls  the  tide 
Of  snow-fed  torrents,  in  a  deep,  a  wide, 
Resistless  rush  of  waters,  till  the  plain 
Is  satiate  with  its  richness;  then  they  glide 
In  summer's  scanty  wave,  so  pure,  no  stain 
Darkens  its  liquid  light,  when  rolling  to  the  main. 


65 

So  on  the  mind  enwrapped  in  error's  cloak, 

Whom  bigotry  and  sense  have  led  astray; 

If  chance  the  fetters  of  his  thought  are  broke, 

And  all  the  night  that  dimmed  him,  swept  away, 

And  on  him  wisdom  pours  her  fullest  ray, 

A  flood  seems  rolled  through  his  exulting  soul, 

And  all  its  fulness  hardly  can  allay 

His  new-waked  thirst  for  knowledge ;  to  the  goal 

Of  truth  he  springs  and  spurns  indignant  all  control. 

Awhile  he  grasps  at  Science,  with  the  strong, 

Fierce  spirit  of  ambition,  when  his  car 

O'er  fortune's  field  of  blood  is  borne  along, 

Drawn  by  the  wildly  rushing  steeds  of  war, 

And  hurrying  on  in  quest  of  Fame's  bright  star,     (gore ; 

That  shines  through  smoke,  and  dust,  and  wounds,  and 

Justice  and  mercy  cannot  raise  a  bar 

Across  the  torrent  of  his  wrath ;   its  roar 

Drives  virtue,  love,  and  peace,  affrighted  from  its  shore. 

So  on  he  rushes,  in  the  high  pursuit 
Of  knowledge,  till  his  stored  and  wearied  mind 
Bows  'neath  the  weight  of  its  collected  fruit, 
And  casting  all  its  useless  load  behind, 
No  more  to  man's  essential  being  blind, 
His  thought  dwells  only  on  the  good  supreme; 
Then  calm  in  dignity,  in  taste  refined, 
A  spirit  pure  and  lucid,  as  the  beam 
Ethereal,  virtue's  charms  are  his  continual  theme. 

9 


And  what  is  virtue  but  the  just  employ 

Of  all  our  faculties,  so  that  we  live 

Longest,  and  soundest,  and  serenest — -joy 

Its  handmaid,  all  the  sweets  that  health  can  give, 

The  light  heart,  and  the  strong  frame,  which  can  strive,. 

Delighted  in  the  war  we  must  endure ; 

Thoughts  clear,  bold,  tireless,  feelings  all  alive, 

No  passion  can  subdue,  no  sense  allure, 

Even  as  our  Sire  in  Heaven,  just,  merciful,  and  pure. 

The  animal  is  crushed,  the  God  bears  sway, 

The  immortal  essence,  the  enkindling  fire; 

What  powers,  what  energy,  it  can  display, 

When,  freed  from  life's  gross  wants,  it  dare  aspire, 

And  give  a  free  rein  to  its  high  desire, 

And  longing  for  a  mind  that  cannot  sleep, 

Even  as  Apollo  with  his  golden  lyre, 

And  canopied  in  sunbeams,  he  would  sweep         (deep. 

His  chords,   and  pour  a  hymn,  harmonious,  full,  and 

A  hymn  to  Nature,  and  the  unseen  hand 

That  guides  its  living  wheels,  the  moving  soul 

Of  this  material  universe,  who  spanned 

Within  his  grasp,  its  circle,  where  suns  roll, 

Each  in  its  fixed  orb,  and  around  the  whole 

Has  drawn  in  viewless  light  its  flaming  walls; 

This  is  the  limit  of  our  thought,  the  goal 

Where  mind's  imaginative  pinion  falls, 

When  wrapt  in  solemn  thought,  no  link  of  earth  inthrals. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  67 

I  walk  abroad  at  midnight,  and  my  eye, 

Purged  from  its  sensual  blindness,  upward  turns, 

And  wanders  o'er  the  dark  and  spangled  sky, 

Where  every  star,  a  fount  of  being,  burns, 

And  pours  out  life,  as  Naiads,  from  their  urns, 

Drop  their  refreshing  dew  on  herbs  and  flowers — 

I  gaze,  until  my  fancy's  eye  discerns, 

As  in  an  azure  hall,  the  assembled  powers 

Of  nature  spend  in  deep  consult  those  solemn  hours. 

Methinks  I  hear  their  language — but  it  sounds 

Too  high  for  my  conception,  as  the  roar 

Of  thunder  in  the  mountains,  when  it  bounds 

From  peak  to  peak;  or  on  the  echoing  shore 

The  tempest-driven  billows  bursting  pour, 

And  raise  their  awful  voices;   or  the  groan 

Rumbling  in  ./Etna's  entrails,  ere  its  store 

Of  lava  spouts  its  red  jets ;  or  the  moan 

Of  winds,  that  war  within  their  caverned  walls  of  stone. 

And  there  is  melody  among  those  spheres, 

A  music  sweeter  than  the  vernal  train, 

Or  fay  notes,  which  the  nymph-struck  shepherd  hears, 

Where  moon-light  dances  on  the  liquid  plain, 

That  curls  before  the  west  wind,  till  the  main 

Seems  waving  like  a  ruffled  sheet  of  fire — 

'Tis  Nature's  Alleluia;   and  again 

The  stars  exult,  as  when  the  Eternal  Sire  (desire. 

Said,  "  be  there  light,"  and  light  shone  forth  at  his 


u 


68 

How  my  heart  trembles  on  so  vast  a  theme—* 

The  boundless  source  of  energy  and  power, 

The  living  essence  of  the  good  supreme, 

The  all-seeing  eye  that  watches  every  hour, 

That  marks  the  opening  of  each  bud  and  flower, 

That  paints  the  colours  of  the  ephemeron's  wing, 

That  counts  the  myriad  drops,  which  form  the  shower, 

As  wondrous  in  the  awakening  call  of  spring, 

As  worlds  that  lie  beyond  the  stretch  of  Fancy's  wing. 

With  brute  unconscious  gaze,  man  marks  the  earth 

Take  on  its  livery  of  early  flowers ; 

He  sees  no  beauty  in  this  annual  birth, 

No  ceaseless  working  of  creative  powers ; 

His  soul,  lethargic,  wakes  not  in  those  hours 

When  air  is  living,  and  the  waters  teem 

With  new-born  being,  and  the  mantling  bowers 

Are  full  of  love  and  melody,  and  seem 

The  happy  Eden  of  a  poet's  raptured  dream. 

The  sky  is  then  serenest  and  its  arch 

Of  brighter  sapphire ;  and  the  sportive  train 

Of  life-awakening  zephyrs,  on  their  march, 

Shed  renovating  influence  o'er  the  plain; 

The  blue  waves  sparkle  on  the  laughing  main, 

Which  renders  back  to  heaven  its  placid  smile; 

The  chequered  sky,  now  clear,  now  dropping  rain 

On  flowers,  that  spread  their  leaves  to  catch  it,  while 

The  full-swoln  river  rolls  a  fertilizing  Nile. 


69 

How  lovely  is  the  landscape !  Morning  peeps 

Behind  yon  leafy  mountain,  and  her  eye 

Looks  o'er  a  fresh,  green  world,  that  calmly  sleeps 

In  the  sweet  cradle  of  its  infancy, 

And  clustering  round  the  rocky  summits,  fly 

Light  mists,  now  painted  in  the  rich  array 

Of  Heaven's  majestic  spectrum,  which  on  high 

Spans  the  dark  tempest,  as  it  steals  away, 

And  westward  glows  in  pomp  the  golden  eye  of  day. 

Beneath  the  cliff  that  frowns  in  blackness,  lies 

The  mirror  of  dark  waters,  on  it  rest 

Soft  wreaths  of  snowy  vapour,  such  as  rise 

Spotless  in  winter  on  the  mountain's  breast^ 

Soft  as  the  downy  couch  by  beauty  prest, 

And  mantled  in  as  gay  a  canopy 

Of  overhanging  clouds  in  crimson  drest, 

All  glow,  transparency  and  purity, 

Fit  curtain  to  the  throne  where  dwells  Eternity. 

And  now  the  sun  springs  upward  from  his  bed, 

Insufferably  brilliant,  and  his  blaze 

Tinges  with  flowing  gold  the  icy  head 

Of  peaks  which  rise  above  the  clouds,  and  gaze 

In  lonely  grandeur  on  an  endless  maze 

Of  budding  landscape,  hills,  woods,  meadows,  lakes, 

Rivers,  and  winding  rivulets,  where  plays 

The  wave  in  lines  of  silver.     Day  now  breaks 

In  dazzling  floods  of  light,  and  living  nature  wakes 


70 

Her  woodland  choristers,  and  air  is  breathing 

In  tones  of  love-tuned  harmony,  the  deep, 

Heart-kindling,  soul-inspiring  anthem  wreathing 

The  burst  of  native  joy,  that  will  not  sleep, 

But  at  the  summons  of  the  dawn  will  leap. 

And  all  its  full-swoln  tides  of  feeling  pour, 

And,  as  the  light  winds  from  the  bright  lake  sweep 

The  mantling  vapours,  it  will  freely  soar  (roar. 

And  with  its  strong  voice  drown  the  waterfall's  wide 

Let  Man  come  forth,  and  in  the  general  throng 

Of  tuneful  hearts,  his  high  devotion  raise, 

And,  joining  in  the  universal  song 

Of  thankful  rapture,  centre  all  the  rays 

Of  that  heaven-lighted  intellect,  whose  blaze, 

Bright  emanation  from  the  ethereal  beam, 

Forever  kindling  through  eternal  days, 

A  disembodied  spark,  along  life's  stream, 

- 

Shall  always  hasten  on  to  excellence  supreme. 

There  is  its  only  resting  place — while  here 

We  pine  in  heart-sick  longing.     Is  the  fire, 

That  burns  within  our  bosoms,  for  a  sphere 

Of  brighter,  purer  being,  something  higher 

Than  all  Man  ever  reached  to,  the  desire 

Of  sinless  purity  and  tireless  thought, 

But  the  vibration  of  a  living  wire, 

The  motion  of  frail  flesh  more  nicely  wrought, 

That  trembles  here  awhile  and  then  consumes  to  naught  ? 


71 

Our  thoughts  are  boundless  though  our  frames  are  frail, 

Our  souls  immortal,  though  our  limbs  decay; 

Though  darkened  m  this  poor  life  by  a  veil 

Of  suffering,  dying  matter,  we  shall  play 

In  truth's  eternal  sunbeams;  on  the  way 

To  Heaven's  high  capitol  our  car  shall  roll; 

The  temple  of  the  power  whom  all  obey, 

That  is  the  mark  we  tend  to,  for  the  soul 

Can  take  no  lower  flight,  and  seek  no  meaner  goal. 

I  feel  it — though  the  flesh  is  weak,  I  feel 

The  spirit  has  its  energies  untamed 

By  all  its  fatal  wanderings ;  time  may  heal 

The  wounds  which  it  has  suffered;  folly  claimed 

Too  large  a  portion  of  its  youth ;  ashamed 

Of  those  low  pleasures,  it  would  leap  and  fly, 

And  soar  on  wings  of  lightning,  like  the  famed 

Elijah,  when  the  chariot  rushing  by 

Bore  him  with  steeds  of  fire  triumphant  to  the  sky. 

We  are  as  barks  afloat  upon  the  sea 

Helmless  and  oarless,  when  the  light  has  fled, 

The  spirit,  whose  strong  influence  can  free 

The  drowsy  soul,  that  slumbers  in  the  dead, 

Cold  night  of  mortal  darkness ;  from  the  bed 

Of  sloth  he  rouses  at  her  sacred  call, 

And  kindling  in  the  blaze  around  him  shed, 

Rends  with  strong  effort  sin's  debasing  thrall,          (all. 

And  gives  to  God,  his  strength,  his  heart,  his  mind,  his 


Our  home  is  not  on  earth ;  although  we  sleep, 

And  sink  in  seeming  death  awhile,  yet  then 

The  awakening  voice  speaks  loudl/,  and  we  leap 

To  life,  and  energy,  and  light,  again; 

We  cannot  slumber  always  in  the  den 

Of  sense  and  selfishness ;  the  day  will  break, 

Ere  we  forever  leave  the  haunts  of  men ; 

Even  at  the  parting  hour  the  soul  will  wake, 

Nor  like  a  senseless  brute  its  unknown  journey  take. 

How  awful  is  that  hour,  when  conscience  stings 

The  hoary  wretch,  who  on  his  death-bed  hears, 

Deep  in  his  soul,  the  thundering  voice  that  rings, 

In  one  dark,  damning  moment,  crimes  of  years, 

And  screaming  like  a  vulture  in  his  ears, 

Tells  one  by  one  his  thoughts  and  deeds  of  shame ; 

How  wild  the  fury  of  his  soul  careers ! 

His  swart  eye  flashes  with  intensest  flame, 

And  like  the  torture's  rack  the  wrestling  of  his  frame 

Our  souls  have  wings;  their  flight  is  like  the  rush 

Of  whirlwinds,  and  they  upward  point  their  way, 

Like  him  who  bears  the  thunder,  when  the  flush 

Of  his  keen  eye  feeds  on  the  dazzling  ray  : 

He  claps  his  pinions  in  the  blaze  of  day, 

And  gaining  on  the  loftiest  arch  his  throne 

Darts  his  quick  vision  on  his  fated  prey, 

And,  gathering  all  his  vigor,  he  is  gone, 

And  in  an  instant  grasps  his  victim  as  his  own. 


73 


We  soar  as  proudly,  and  as  quickly  fall, 

This  moment  in  the  empyrean,  then  we  sink, 

And  wrapping  in  the  joys  of  sense  our  all, 

The  stream,  that  flows  from  Heaven  we  cannot  drink, 

But  we  will  lie  along  the  flowery  brink 

Of  pleasure's  tempting  current,  till  the  wave 

Is  bitter  and  its  banks  bare,  then  we  think 

Of  what  we  might  have  been,  and,  idly  brave, 

We  take  a  short  weak  flight,  and  drop  into  the  grave. 

My  heart  has  felt  new  vigour,  and  the  glow 

Of  high  hopes  and  bright  fancy,  and  the  spring 

Of  that  unchanging  being,  whither  flow 

The  breathings  of  our  spirit,  when  its  wing 

Is  spread  to  take  its  last  flight,  where  we  cling 

In  all  the  storms  of  life,  as  to  an  oar ; 

There,  like  the  shining  serpent,  we  shall  fling 

Away  our  earthly  shackles;  there  no  more 

The  wind  shall  lift  the  waves  and  send  them  to  the  shore, 

To  make  wild  music  on  the  surging  beach, 
And  fling  the  foam  aloft  in  snowy  curls, 
And,  pouring  headlong  through  the  sea-wall's  breach. 
Suck,  in  the  raging  vortex'  giddy  whirls, 
The  sea-bird  lighting  on  the  wave,  that  hurls 
To  swift  destruction,  but  there  is  a  rock, 
Built  strong,  deep-planted — mercy  there  unfurls 
Her  white  flag,  and  the  bark,  that  stands  the  shock, 
The  tempest-tossing  tide,  the  breaker's  burst  shall  mock. 

10 


Much  study  is  a  weariness — so  said 

The  sage  of  sages,  and  the  aching  eye, 

The  pallid  cheek,  the  trembling  frame,  the  head 

Throbbing  with  thought  and  torn  with  agony, 

Attest  his  truth ;  and  yet  we  will  obey 

The  intellectual  Numen,  and  will  gaze 

In  wondering  awe  upon  it,  and  will  pay 

Worship  to  its  omnipotence;  the  blaze 

Of  mind  is  as  a  fount  of  fire,  that  upward  play£ 

Aloft  on  snow-clad  mountains,  on  whose  breast 

Unspotted  purity  has  ever  lain; 

The  clouds  of  sense  and  passion  cannot  rest 

Upon  its  shadowy  summit,  nor  can  stain 

The  white  veil  which  enwraps  it,  nor  in  vain 

Roll  the  white  floods  of  liquid  heat,  they  melt 

The  gathered  stores  of  ages,  to  the  plain 

They  pour  them  down  in  streams  enkindling,  felt 

By  every  human  heart,  in  myriad  channels  dealt. 

This  is  the  electric  spark  sent  down  from  Heaven? 
That  woke  to  second  life  the  man  of  clay ; 
The  torch  was  lit  in  ether,  light  was  given, 
Which  not  all  passion's  storms  can  sweep  away, 
There  is  no  closing  to  this  once-risen  day; 
Tempests  may  darken,  but  the  sun  will  glow, 
Serene,  unclouded,  dazzling,  and  its  ray 
Through  some  small  crevices  will  always  flow, 
Nor  leave  in  utter  night  the  world  that  gropes  below. 


75 

And  now  and  then  some  spirit,  from  the  throng, 
With  wings  Dredalean,  in  his  rage  will  soar, 
And  spreading  wide  his  pinions,  with  a  strong 
And  desperate  effort,  from  this  servile  shore 
Mounting  like  Minder's  swans,  whose  voices  pour 
Melodious  music,  like  the  dying  fall 
Of  zephyrs  in  a  pine  grove,  or  the  roar 
Heard  through  the  lonely  forest,  when  the  pall 
Of  night  o'erhangs  us,  borne  from  some  far  waterfall. 

With  wing  as  tireless,  and  with  voice  as  sweet, 

His  eye  the  falcon's,  and  his  heart  the  dove's, 

He  lifts  his  heavenward  daring,  till  the  heat 

Of  that  same  orb  he  aimed  to,  which  he  loves 

To  mark  with  keen  eye  till  the  cloud  removes, 

That  gave  its  glow  a  softness,  with  its  blight 

Withers  his  sinewy  strength;  so  Heaven  reproves 

The  minds,  that  scan  it  with  audacious  sight, 

And  seek  with  restless  gaze  too  pure,  unmingled  light. 

Gay  was  the  Paradise  of  love  he  drew, 

And  pictured  in  his  fancy;  he  did  dwell 

Upon  it  till  it  had  a  life ;  he  threw 

A  tint  of  Heaven  athwart  it — who  can  tell 

The  yearnings  of  his  heart,  the  charm,  the  spell, 

That  bound  him  to  that  vision?  Cold  truth  came 

And  plucked  aside  the  veil — he  saw  a  hell, 

And  o'er  it  curled  blue  flakes  of  lurid  flame —  (shame. 

He  laid  him  down  and  clasped  his  damp  chill  brow  in 


76 

His  fall  is  as  the  Titan's,  who  would  tear 

The  thunder  from  their  monarch,  and  would  pile 

Their  mountain  stairway  to  Olympus,  where 

The  bolt  they  grasped  at,  pierced  them ;  with  a  smile 

Of  fearless  power  the  thunderer  sat  the  while, 

And  mocked  their  fruitless  toiling,  then  he  hurled 

His  whitening  arrows,  and  at  once  their  guile 

And  force  were  blasted,  and  their  fall  unfurled 

An  awful  warning  flag  to  a  presumptuous  world. 

They  stand,  a  beacon  chained  upon  the  rock; 

Heaven  o'er  them  lifts  unveiled  her  boundless  blue; 

Ambition's  sun  still  scorches,  and  the  mock 

Of  all  their  high  desires  is  full  in  view ; 

Affection  cools  their  foreheads  with  no  dew 

Of  melting  hearts,  no  rain  of  pitying  eyes ; 

The  vulture,  conscience,  gnaws  them,  ever  new 

Their  heart's  torn  fibres  into  life  will  rise, 

The  gorging  fury  clings,  repelled  she  never  flies. 

These  are  the  men  who  dared  to  rend  the  veil 
Religion  hung  around  us;  they  would  tear 
The  film  from  ofi*  our  eyes,  and  break  the  pale 
That  bound  the  awe-struck  spirit,  nor  would  spare 
The  worship  paid  by  ages;  in  the  glare 
Of  their  red  torches  Piety  grew  blind, 
And  saw  no  more  her  comforter;  her  fair 
And  fond  hopes  lost  their  beauty;  can  the  mind, 
JVhen  rifled  of  its  faith,  so  dear  a  solace  find? 


77 

They  pull  down  Jove  from  his  Idaean  throne; 
They  quench  the  Jew's  Schechinah,  and  the  cross, 
That  bore  the  mangled  corse  of  Heaven's  own  Son, 
They  trample  in  the  dust,  and  spurn  as  dross; 
And  will  they  recompense  the  world  its  loss? 
Have  they  a  fairer  light  to  cheer  our  gloom  ? 
Oh  no ! — the  grave  yawns  on  us  as  a  fosse, 
Where  we  must  sleep  forever;  this  our  doom — 
Body  and  mind  shall  rot  and  moulder  in  the  tomb. 

There  is  a  mourner,  and  her  heart  is  broken — 

She  is  a  widow;  she  is  old  and  poor ; 

Her  only  hope  is  in  that  sacred  token 

Of  peaceful  happiness,  when  life  is  o'er; 

She  asks  nor  wealth  nor  pleasure,  begs  no  more 

Than  Heaven's  delightful  volume,  and  the  sight 

Of  her  Redeemer.     Sceptics !  would  you  pour 

Your  blasting  vials  on  her  head,  and  blight         (night  ? 

Sharon's  sweet  rose,  that  blooms  and  charms  her  being's 

She  lives  in  her  affections ;  for  the  grave 
Has  closed  upon  her  husband,  children;  all 
Her  hopes  are  with  the  arm  she  trusts  will  save 
Her  treasured  jewels ;  though  her  views  are  small, 
Though  she  has  never  mounted  high  to  fall 
And  writhe  in  her  debasement,  yet  the  spring 
Of  her  meek,  tender  feelings  cannot  pall 
Her  unperverted  palate,  but  will  bring 
A  joy  without  regret,  a  bliss  that  has  no  sting. 


78 

Even  as  a  fountain,  whose  unsullied  wave 

Wells  in  the  pathless  valley,  flowing  o'er 

With  silent  waters,  kissing,  as  they  lave, 

The  pebbles  with  light  rippling,  and  the  shore 

Of  matted  grass  and  flowers — so  softly  pour 

The  breathings  of  her  bosom,  when  she  prays, 

Low-bowed,  before  her  Maker;  then  no  more 

She  muses  on  the  griefs  of  former  days;  (rays. 

Her  full  heart  melts  and  flows  in  Heaven's  dissolving 

And  Faith  can  see  a  new  world,  and  the  eyes 
Of  Saints  look  pity  on  her;  Death  will  come — 
A  few  short  moments  over,  and  the  prize 
Of  peace  eternal  waits  her,  and  the  tomb 
Becomes  her  fondest  pillow;  all  its  gloom 
Is  scattered;  what  a  meeting  there  will  be 
To  her  and  all  she  loved  here,  and  the  bloom 
Of  new  life  from  those  cheeks  shall  never  flee — 
Theirs  is  the  health  which  lasts  through  all  eternity 

There  is  a  war  within  me,  and  a  strife 

Between  my  meaner  and  my  nobler  powers; 

I  would  and  yet  I  cannot  part  with  life ; 

'Tis  as  a  scorpion's  sting  to  view  those  hours, 

Where  soul  has  bowed  to  sense,  and  darkly  lours 

The  future  in  the  distance.     There  are  men, 

Whose  strange-blent  nature,  now  an  angel's  towers, 

And  rides  among  the  loftiest,  and  then 

Seeks,  like  a  snarling  dog,  the  cynic's  squalid  den. 


79 


They  nestle  in  their  prison ;  they  can  find 
No  friend  to  pour  their  hearts  on ;  they  would  cling 
Closer  than  ivy  to  the  kindred  mind 
They  touch — its  ice-cold  freezes,  then  they  fling- 
Affection  to  the  winds,  and  madly  spring 
To  shun  their  hated  fellows  in  some  cave; 
A  leaden  weight  confines  their  spirit's  wing, 
Life  palls  them,  there  is  naught  beyond  the  grave, 
They  turn  a  sneer  on  Him,  who  gives  his  hand  to  save. 

Theirs  is  the  boundless  love  of  sentient  being — 
As  they  have  now  the  will,  had  they  the  power, 
Were  but  their  longings  and  their  strength  agreeing, 
Their  outspread  hand  a  flood  of  bliss  would  shower, 
And  wake  the  moral  world,  as  in  the  hour 
Of  spring  wakes  living  nature — from  his  sleep 
Of  vice  and  superstition  Man  should  tower; 
Thoughts  pure,  high  feelings,  purpose  strong  and  deep, 
Should  lift  him  on,  like  wings,  up  virtue's  craggy  steep. 

And  flowers  should  bloom  on  his  ascending  track, 

Like  roses  on  their  wild  thorns,  by  the  way 

The  hunter  scales  the  mountains,  nor  should  lack 

Music  of  tuneful  birds ;  the  flute  should  play 

The  soft  airs  of  the  shepherdess ;  when  day          (night 

Spreads  the  broad  plane  tree's  noon  shade,  and  when 

Spangles  her  silent  canopy,  away 

By  some  dark  cavern  on  the  lonely  height, 

The  full-voiced  hymn  should  tell  the  hermit's  holy  flight ; 


80 

Who  sits  alone  in  darkness,  wrapped  in  musing, 
Communing  with  the  Universe,  the  Power, 
Whose  ceaseless  mercy  love  and  life  diffusing, 
Bids  the  sun  dart  his  warm  rays,  sends  the  shower, 
Mantles  the  turf  in  green,  and  decks  the  bower 
With  tufted  leaves  and  wreathed  flowers,  whose  perfume, 
Earth's  incense,  breathes  most  sweetly  at  the  hour, 
When  soft-descending  night-dews  steep  the  bloom, 
And  with  their  star-lit  gems  the  mantling  arch  illume ; 

And  from  this  waste  of  beauty  fills  the  urn 

Of  plenty  with  her  fair  fruits,  spreads  the  plain 

With  all  the  wealth  of  harvest,  the  return 

Of  spring's  delightful  promise,  with  a  chain 

Of  love  and  bounty  binding  life's  domain 

To  Him,  who  by  his  fiat  gave  it  birth ; 

Else  had  these  flowery  fields  a  desert  lain, 

And  all  the  riches  of  the  teeming  earth 

Been  withered  by  the  touch  of  endless,  hopeless  dearth : 

Else  had  one  wilderness  of  rock  and  sand, 
Treeless  and  herbless,  where  no  rain  nor  dew 
Poured  their  reviving  influence,  one  land 
Of  sparkling  barrenness  appalled  the  view, 
And  o'er  it  Heaven  had  raised  its  cloudless  blue, 
Hot  as  the  burning  steel's  cerulean  glow, 
And  the  sun's  blasting  arrows  darted  through 
The  scorched  brain,  till  its  lava  blood  would  flow 
In  torrents,  and  its  veins  throb  with  delirious  throe; 


81 


And  man  had  died  of  thirst  and  famine — Death 
Comes  not  with  direr  aspect;  eyes  of  blood, 
Staring  and  bursting;  frequent,  fiery  breath 
Heaved  from  the  breast,  that  seems  one  boiling  flood 
Of  maddening  pulses,  writhing  as  a  brood 
Of  serpents  roused  to  fury ;  like  their  hiss 
They  rush  along  the  swoln  veins,  and  for  food 
His  parched  jaws  gnaw  his  flesh,  and  O !  what  bliss  (this. 
To  drain  his  life's  warm  stream — there  is  no  death  like 

This  is  the  living  prototype  of  hell — 
The  earth  all  fire  without,  all  flame  within, 
And  conscience  barking  like  a  Hysen's  yell, 
And  pouring  out  her  vialed  wrath  on  sin; 
She  lights  her  torch  unwasting — then  begin 
Ages  of  endless  torture,  for  the  heart, 
Whom  Circe  and  the  tempting  Sirens  win, 
While  listening  to  their  voice,  must  feel  the  smart 
And  pangs  of  unfed  Hope's  forever  probing  dart. 

The  clouds  are  gathering  on  the  mountain  tops, 
And  in  their  dark  veil  wrap  those  clifls  and  towers 
Of  wasteless  granite,  those  enduring  props, 
On  which  the  arch  of  Heaven  rests,  where  the  Powers 
Of  winter  hold  their  rule,  even  in  the  hours 
When  sultry  summer  scorches ;  there  they  roll 
And  spread  their  frowning  curtains;  night  there  lours 
With  an  unusual  blackness,  and  the  pole 
Rocks  with  the  bolt,  as  if  the  knell  of  nature  tolled. 

11 


In  hazy  gloom  the  threatening  tempest  broods, 

Crowning  with  ebon  wreaths  the  mountain's  cone. 

And  holding  in  its  magazine,  the  floods^ 

That  soon  will  hurry  headlong  from  its  throne. 

From  rock  to  rock  impetuous  pouring  down 

Their  dark,  foam-crested  waters,  as  the  mane 

Waving  amid  the  rush  of  war,  and  drown, 

In  their  wide-wasting  waves,  the  cultured  plain, 

And  bear  flocks,  forests,  towns,  and  harvests,  to  the  main. 

And  see — the  cloudy  billows  heave  their  surges. 

In  airy  tides,  along  yon  western  wall, 

Now  swiftly  rolling  as  the  roused  wind  urges, 

Now  hanging  silent  as  the  wild  blasts  fall, 

Drooping  in  massy  folds,  as  if  the  pall 

Of  all  these  sweet  scenes  o'er  us  were  outspread ; 

Even  as  a  spectre  rising  grim  and  tall 

At  night  to  some  scared  wanderer,  fancy-led,       (head. 

Sullen,  and  dim,  and  dark,  towers  yonder  mountain's 

A  solemn  pause — the  woods  below  are  still; 

No  breezes  wave  their  light  leaves,  and  the  lake 

Lies  like  a  sleeping  mirror;  on  the  hill 

The  white  flocks  eye  the  rain-drops,  that  will  slake 

Their  hot  thirst,  and  the  screaming  curlews  take 

Their  circling  flight  along  the  silent  stream; 

Save  their  storm-loving  music  now  awake, 

Nature  seems  slumbering  in  a  midnight  dream; 

She  starts — behold  aloft  that  sudden  quivering  gleam. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  S3 

The  torch  is  lit  among  the  clouds — the  peals 

Roar  through  the  lonely  wilds,  and  echoing  swell 

Around  the  far  horizon — earth  now  feels 

And  trembles  as  she  listens — who  can  tell 

The  spirit's  awe?  as  if  it  heard  its  knell, 

It  bows  before  the  Power,  whose  hand  controls 

Lightning,  and  wind,  and  waves,  who  loves  to  dwell 

In  storms,  and  on  its  path  the  tempest  rolls,         (souls. 

Whose  words  are  bolts,  whose  glance  electric  pierces 

And  makes  the  bold  blasphemer  pale  with  awe, 

And  stills  the  madman's  laugh,  and  strikes  with  dread 

The  brow,  that  bore  defiance  to  the  law 

Stamped  on  the  universe;  he  hides  his  head 

In  darkness  like  the  ostrich,  all  those,  led 

By  his  once  fearless  mocking,  slink  away, 

And  o'er  them  prostrate,  wrathful  angels  tread, 

And  draw  their  fiery  arrows,  and  repay 

With  fear  and  death  the  hearts  that  dare  to  disobey. 

'Tis  night,  and  we  are  on  the  mountain  top — 
The  air  is  motionless,  and  not  a  breath 
Of  wind  is  whispered,  and  the  pure  dews  drop 
From  Heaven,  like  tears,  upon  this  lovely  death 
Of  nature,  while  the  landscape  underneath, 
And  the  vast  arch  above,  smile  in  the  ray 
Of  the  full  moon,  who,  circled  in  her  wreath 
Of  glory,  walks,  a  queen,  her  lofty  way, 
And  pours  upon  the  world  a  softer,  calmer  day. 


84 

The  hills,  the  plains,  and  meadows,  far  below, 

Sparkle  with  watery  diamonds,  and  the  stream 

That  steals  in  oft  meanders,  in  its  flow 

Of  peacefulness,  is  silvered  with  her  beam, 

And  the  round  basins  in  the  woodlands  seem 

Like  mirrors  circled  in  a  pearly  row, 

And  like  the  colours  of  the  dying  bream, 

The  soft  mists  hovering  round  them,  bear  the  bow, 

The  aerial  brede  of  light,  lit  with  a  mellower  glow, 

Than  when  it  sits  majestic  on  the  storm, 

What  time  it  hangs  along  the  eastern  sky, 

The  herald  of  returning  calm,  its  form, 

As  imaged  erst,  a  maid  of  peaceful  eye, 

Who  on  her  dewy  saffron  wings  would  fly, 

And  roll  away  the  clouds  along  the  wind, 

And  laughing  as  she  saw  the  car  on  high 

Shine  in  its  full  effulgence,  as  the  mind, 

Whom  sense  can  never  sink,  nor  passion's  fury  blind. 

So  rolls  that  car  along  its  arch  of  blue, 

And  shines  with  a  serener  effluence;  air 

Wakened  by  fanning  breezes,  charms  anew 

The  flushed  cheek  with  its  coolness;  Heaven  is  fair, 

A  speck  dims  not  its  liquid  azure,  there 

The  eye  can  rest  with  calmness,  and  the  green 

And  bloom  of  grass  and  flowers  new  richness  wear, 

And  sweeter  incense  rises  from  the  bean, 

And  jessamine,  and  rose,  that  scent  this  dewy  scene. 


85 


As  when  the  twilight  of  a  weary  life 

Comes  on  with  quietness  and  purity, 

And  after  vainly  struggling  in  the  strife 

Of  pleasure  or  ambition,  from  the  eye 

The  film  falls,  and  the  mantling  vapours  fly, 

And  Man  stands  forth  in  his  pure,  native  worth, 

And  after  tears  for  lost  years  hurried  by, 

The  soul  awakens  to  a  second  birth, 

And  for  a  few  hours  knows  there  is  a  Heaven  on  earth. 

Live  for  the  present  moment,  but  live  so 

As  you  might  live  forever;  let  the  cares 

And  toils  of  this  poor  transient  being  go, 

And  pluck  the  fruit  the  tree  of  knowledge  bears, 

And  gaze  upon  the  charms  which  virtue  wears, 

Till  her  eye's  light  has  filled  and  warmed  your  breast — 

Be  strong,  and  bold,  and  active — he  who  dares 

Contend  in  virtue's  panoply  is  blest 

Alone  with  Heaven's  unstained,  enduring,  noiseless  rest. 

Give  me  the  evening  of  a  summer's  day, 

A  long  bright  day  of  glory,  when  the  sun 

Is  most  effulgent,  and  the  earth  most  gay, 

And  after  deeds  of  lofty  daring  done, 

And  palms  on  many  a  field  of  combat  won, 

Where  tempests  rage,  or  noontide  glows  with  power, 

And  when  the  mind  its  high  career  has  run 

To  seek  a  covert  at  this  silent  hour, 

Where  songs  and  gales  may  lull  in  some  secluded  bower. 


86  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

?Tis  night,  and  winds  are  hushed — the  leaves  are  still, 

Or  scarcely  ruffle  on  the  poplar  bough, 

And  where  a  stream  of  waving  light,  the  rill 

Drips  o'er  the  face  of  yonder  mountain's  brow, 

The  moon-beams  shine  as  on  Endymion;  now 

The  forests  are  unpeopled  of  those  gay 

And  lovely  nymphs  and  wanton  fawns,  but  how 

They  gave  the  fancy  of  the  Poet  play, 

And  threw  a  rosy  hue  and  perfume  o'er  his  lay. 

The  Spring  came  forth,  and  with  her  came  a  train 
Of  hours  and  loves  and  graces,  every  bower 
Concealed  its  nymph,  and  every  flowery  plain 
Was  full  of  light-winged  Cupids ;  for  the  power 
Of  love  awaked  the  Universe,  the  hour, 
When  Hymen  lit  his  torch,  and  Psyche  came 
Wrapped  in  the  embrace  of  Eros,  and  a  shower 
Of  sweets  was  poured  around  them,  and  a  flame 
Shot  from  the  glowing  eyes  of  that  enamoured  dame. 

She  gave  her  soul  to  love,  and  on  her  lip 
Her  heart  stood,  and  he  kissed  the  prize  away, 
More  sweet  than  when  the  dews  from  roses  drip 
In  spangles  on  the  grass,  in  early  day, 
When  emerald  sylphs  on  airy  pinions  play, 
And  lightly  hover,  as  the  leaves  unfold 
And  spread  their  vermil  velvet,  in  the  ray 
Poured  through  the  leafy  canopy,  and  rolled 
O'er  all  the  bloom  below  in  waving  floods  of  gold : 


87 


The  lilac  purpling  with  its  luscious  spires, 

Breathing  a  milky  sweetness,  like  the  balm 

From  Aden's  groves  of  myrrh,  where  summer  fires 

The  living  world  to  rapture,  but  the  calm, 

Cool  shade  of  spreading  maples,  than  the  palm 

With  all  its  crimson  clusters,  charms  me  more; 

The  violet,  lurking  underneath  the  halm 

Of  withered  grass  tufts,  has  a  dearer  store  (shore. 

Of  sweets,  than  all  the  flowers  that  glow  on  Ceylon's 

The  heart  cannot  be  cold  in  such  a  shade ; 

It  will  be  melted,  as  the  icy  stream 

That  steals  with  limpid  current  through  the  glade, 

And  murmurs  not  in  winter,  but  the  beam 

Of  warmth  dissolves  it;  as  a  fleeting  dream 

The  fretted  icicles  are  gone,  the  wave, 

Gliding  o'er  snowy  sands  in  morning's  gleam, 

Chimes  like  the  song  of  sorrow  Cycnus  gave, 

In  tones  of  dying  woe  around  his  brother's  grave. 

How  poor,  how  weak,  how  impotent  is  Man — 

Cradled  in  imbecility,  the  prey 

Of  those  who  love  him  fondest,  who  will  fan 

His  passions  by  indulgence,  and  will  sway 

To  sense  and  self,  and  pride  and  fear,  and  play 

Their  apish  tricks  upon  him,  till  his  soul 

Has  lost  its  native  innocence;  the  ray 

Kindled  from  Heaven,  while  feeble  yet,  is  stole   (bowl. 

By  sirens,  and  then  quenched  in  Pleasure's  mantling 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

I 

The  foaming  goblet  sparkles  to  the  brim, 

And  heedless  youth  hangs  o'er  the  glowing  stream. 

And  in  its  amber  waters  gaily  swim 

The  fairest  visions  of  enchantment's  dream, 

And  o'er  it  plays  a  soft  and  sunny  beam, 

That  steals  in  serpent  windings  to  the  heart, 

And  like  a  viper's  hid  in  roses,  gleam 

The  flashings  of  its  keen  eyes,  as  a  dart  (depart. 

With  venom  tipped,  they  give  deep  wounds  that  ne'er 

We  lie  along  in  gay  voluptuous  ease — 

The  full  vine  mantles  o'er  us,  and  our  pillow 

Of  mingled  moss  and  flowers ;  the  hum  of  bees 

Sucking  the  dew  of  roses,  and  the  willow 

Now  hung  in  downy  bloom,  and  clothed  in  yellow. 

Comes  like  a  drowsy  zephyr  on  the  ear, 

And  the  clear-flowing  fountain  murmurs  mellow, 

And  airy  birds  in  mazy  circles  veer, 

And  all  seems  fair  and  bright  as  some  celestial  sphere. 

We  sip  the  cup  of  promise,  and  we  drain 

With  eager  lip  its  nectar,  till  the  fume 

Mounts  kindling  to  the  wild  and  heated  brain ; 

And  then  all  things  a  richer  tint  assume, 

And  are  enrobed  in  splendour,  and  illumed 

With  gay  looks,  and  bright  eyes,  and  speaking  glances. 

And  laughing  frolic  waves  her  spangled  pjume, 

And  revelry  with  light  step  featly  dances, 

And  on  their  rainbow  wings  flit  round  a  crowd  of  fancies. 


89 

And  from  our  couch  we  spring — we  scarce  can  tread 

This  poor  earth  in  our  extacy,  on  high 

We  float  through  fields  of  Ether,  overhead 

Swells  with  a  bluer,  loftier  arch  the  sky, 

And  on  an  eagle's  wings  we  seem  to  fly, 

And  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  world  appear 

In  dazzling  beauty  to  the  fancy's  eye, 

And  like  the  tuneful  spirit  of  some  sphere, 

The  sweet  winds  pour  full  floods  of  music  in  our  ear. 

As  breezes  from  Sabaea  o'er  the  main 

Waft  fragrance  on  their  pinions  from  the  groves 

Of  Myrrh  and  Cassia,  and  the  snowy  plain 

Of  Coffee-blossoms,  where  the  Queen  of  Loves, 

Drawn  in  her  pearly  car  by  purple  doves, 

Would  linger  with  most  fondness  on  her  way; 

A  land  of  passion — under  shady  coves 

Hollowed  in  living  rock,  they  spend  the  day, 

To  see  their  Houries  dance  and  hear  their  citterns  play. 

The  past  is  gone — it  can  return  no  more, 
The  dew  of  life  exhaled,  its  glory  set; 
It  has  no  other  goods  for  me  in  store, 
It  is  a  dreary  wilderness,  and  yet 
I  fondly  look  and  linger.     In  the  net 
Of  pleasure  all  the  breathings  of  my  soul, 
The  burning  thoughts  alone  on  Learning  set 
In  tender  childhood,  pointed  to  the  goal,  (stole, 

Where  bards  arid  sages  aimed,  in  Youth  blind  leaders 

12 


90 


And  vile  companions  rifled,  and  they  left 

My  heart  dispirited,  and  sunk,  and  poor, 

Of  all  its  highest  hopes  and  wants  bereft, 

A  pinnace  on  the  waves  with  naught  to  moor 

Or  bind  it  to  the  safe  bank;  from  the  shore, 

Where  my  best  powers  stood  weeping,  o'er  the  deep, 

Tossing  and  madly  heaving,  wild  winds  bore 

My  dark,  distracted  being,  where  fiends  keep      (sleep. 

Their  orgies,  and  the  worm  that  gnaws,  will  never 

There  is  no  hope — ten  years  the  winds  have  blown, 

That  bore  me  to  my  ruin,  and  the  waves 

Roll  in  my  wake  like  mountains — Joy  has  flown, 

And  left  behind  the  lonely  turfless  graves 

Of  early  fond  attachments — like  the  slaves 

Bound  fettered  to  the  galley,  at  the  oar 

Still  I  must  toil  uncheered,  or  in  the  caves, 

Where  not  a  ray  of  hope  comes,  I  must  pour       (core. 

Tears,  bitter  tears,  that  well  from  the  heart's  bleeding 

The  soul  that  had  its  home  with  me  was  bright, 
Its  early  promise  as  the  flowers  of  spring, 
Profuse  in  richness  as  the  dawning  light, 
When  the  gay  rosy-footed  Hours  take  wing, 
And  from  the  glowing  East  the  coursers  spring, 
That  bear  the  car  of  day  along  its  road, 
And  o'er  a  waking  world  their  radiance  fling- 
So  bright  the  stream  of  mind  within  me  flowed, 
It  had  one  only  wish — to  scale  the  high  abode, 


PERCITAL'S  POEMS.  91 

Where  Truth  has  reared  her  awful  throne,  and  pure 

Platonic  beauty  sits,  a  smiling  bride, 

The  Majesty  that  bows,  and  to  allure 

The  winning  charms  of  Virtue  by  his  side — 

Cursed  be  the  drawling  pedants,  who  divide 

The  monarch  from  his  lovely  queen,  and  sink 

The  soul  in  stupid  awe,  too  soon  to  hide 

Its  coward  head  in  pleasure's  lap,  and  drink        (brink 

Her  tempting,  fiery  draughts — Stop!  ye  are  on  the 

Of  endless  woe  and  ruin — sleep  no  more — 

The  charm  will  soon  be  broken — ye  will  wake, 

And  find  the  alluring  hours  that  wooed  you  o'er, 

And  rising  like  a  fury,  Vice  will  shake 

Her  smoky  torch,  and  in  your  heart's  blood  slake 

Its  Hell-lit  fires,  and  you  will  seek  in  vain 

The  young  days  that  have  vanished;  in  the  lake, 

That  Priests  have  drawn  so  highly,  there  remain 

But  years  of  hopeless  thought,  and  still  returning  pain. 

The  world  may  scorn  me,  if  they  choose — I  care 
But  little  for  their  scoffings — I  will  think 
Freely,  while  life  shall  linger  on,  and  there 
I  find  a  plank,  that  bears  me — I  may  sink 
For  moments,  but  I  rise  again,  nor  shrink 
From  doing  what  the  love  of  Man  inspires : 
I  will  not  flatter,  fawn,  nor  crouch,  nor  wink 
At  what  high-mounted  wealth  or  power  desires ; 
I  have  a  loftier  aim  to  which  my  soul  aspires. 


92 

'Tis  of  no  common  order,  but  is  founded 

On  all  the  capabilities  of  Man, 

Not  like  Condorcet's  waking  dreams,  'tis  bounded 

By  what  our  free,  unfettered  efforts  can, 

The  high  career  that  Tully,  Plato,  ran, 

Or  higher  still,  the  ideal  they  could  form — 

'Tis  ignorance,  not  nature,  puts  the  ban 

On  these  bright,  perfect  visions,  which  could  warm 

Worthies  of  Old,  who  lived  in  virtue's  darkest  storm. 

They  saw  Man  sunk  around  them,  groveling,  vile, 

A  mass  of  brutal  grossness,  shivering  fear, 

Follies,  that  made  the  cold  Abderite  smile 

And  on  his  fellows  look  with  bitter  sneer, 

And  squalid  woes,  that  drew  the  Ephesian's  tear, 

Which  flowed  for  miseries  he  could  not  heal; 

So  wept  the  man,  to  whom  all  life  was  dear, 

Whose  heart  was  made  most  sensitive  to  feel, 

And  from  a  wretched  world  in  hopeless  sorrow  steal. 

He  could  not  cure  the  malady — too  deep 
The  poisoned  dart  was  planted;  but  he  gave 
His  witness,  and  his  voice  should  never  sleep, 
A  warning  sound  should  issue  from  his  grave, 
And  tell  to  ages  words,  which  heard  might  save 
From  woes  like  those  he  suffered,  woes  like  mine; 
The  man,  who  will  speak  boldly,  and  will  brave 
A  thoughtless  world's  contempt,  deserves  to  shine 
Bright  in  the  loftiest  niche  of  Fame's  enduring  shrine,. 


93 

To  feel  a  heart  within  thee,  tender,  flowing 

In  tears  at  others  pain,  and  racked  with  thine, 

A  soul  that  longs  for  high  attainments,  glowing 

For  all  that  can  ennoble,  raise,  refine, 

Whose  dearest  longings  seem  almost  divine,  • 

The  insatiate  grasp  for  knowledge,  and  the  aim 

Of  tireless,  fearless  virtue,  then  to  pine, 

Unknown,  unvalued,  and  to  quench  the  flame 

Of  mind  in  some  low  slough,  and  bid  farewell  to  fame. 

And  why?  because  no  hand  was  near  to  check 
The  wanderings  of  my  childhood,  but  their  care, 
If  care  it  could  be  called,  which  caused  my  wreck, 
Made  sin's  descending  path  to  me  seem  fair; 
They  poured  her  tempting  fruits  and  viands  there, 
And  kindled  in**ny  heart  the  lava  stream 
Of  wasting  passion — now  I  wake,  and  bare 
Before  me  lie  the  horrors  of  that  dream, 
Which  poor  perverted  youth  the  fairest  Eden  deem, 

The  world  will  never  pity  woes  like  mine — 

3Tis  only  justice  pouring  out  her  flood — 

I  ask  no  pity,  nor  will  I  incline 

Weakly  before  the  cross,  nor  in  the  blood 

Of  others  wash  away  my  crimes — I  stood 

Alone,  wrapped  in  suspicion  and  despair, 

For  they  did  goad  me  early  to  that  mood — 

I  hate  not  men,  but  yet  I  will  not  share 

Again  their  follies,  hopes,  their  toils  and  fears,  nor  wear 


94 

The  mantle  of  the  Hypocrite,  nor  bow 
Before  a  fancied  power,  nor  lisp  the  creed, 
Which  offers  them  new  life,  they  know  not  how, 
A  blind  belief,  whose  ministers  will  lead, 
Even  as  a  hireling  slave  the  shackled  steed, 
The  many,  who  to  nature's  laws  are  blind- — 
The  heart  whom  early  wrongs  have  taught  to  bleed, 
When  blended  with  a  bright  and  well  stored-mind, 
In  solace  such  as  this,  no  hope,  no  joy  can  find. 

I  will  not  lift  my  hand  against  those  laws, 
Which  nature  wears  instamped  upon  her,  nor 
Gird  me  to  battle  in  so  weak  a  cause, 
Nor  waste  my  efforts  in  so  fruitless  war; 
But  I  will  weep  the  hopes  I  panted  for, 
Which  virtue  might  have  made  reality,,  $ 
And  know  that  fortune  with  malignant  star 
Lighted  my  path,  and  with  an  evil  eye 
Left  me  to  those  who  crawled  in  Epicurus'  stye. 

I  see  the  charms  of  virtue — can  I  take 

Again  her  narrow  path,  which  leads  to  Heaven? 

Beside  it  flows  a  fountain,  which  can  slake 

The  temperate  thirst  of  nature,  there  are  given 

Fruits  which  refresh,  not  kindle — I  have  striven 

Against  the  long  perversions  of  my  frame, 

And  I  will  strive — but  no,  by  passion  driven, 

In  evil  hour  I  do  the  deed  of  shame, 

And  for  a  time  I  quench  the  soul's  reviving  flame. 


95 

I  have  no  hand  to  cheer  me — was  there  one, 

Whom  I  must  ever  long  for,  was  that  heart 

Still  mine  in  all  my  failings,  as  the  sun 

Wakens  a  slumbering  world,  she  might  impart 

New  being  to  me,  and  my  soul  would  start, 

As  giants  from  their  sleep,  to  run  the  race 

Of  glory,  and  to  hurl  the  unerring  dart, 

Where  victory  rears  her  palm  branch — No,  my  chase 

Of  fame  is  done,  and  left  behind  it  scarce  a  trace. 


1M 


PROMETHEUS, 


PART  II. 


AWAKE,  thou  sleeper,  from  thy  languid  dream 

Of  pleasure  crowned  with  roses ;  thou  must  take 

Anew  the  harp  of  solemn  tone — a  theme 

Demands  thee  to  attune  it,  which  should  wake 

The  fire  within  thy  bosom  hid,  and  break 

The  flowery  fetters,  that  entwine  thee : — Hark ! 

A  clear  voice  calls  thee,  where  the  blue  waves  make 

Music  around  the  light  and  bounding  bark,  (ark. 

That  rides  the  shoreless  sea  of  mind,  a  heaven-built 

Fair  shines  the  sun  to  greet  thee  on  thy  way 
Over  the  hurried  ocean — Heaven  is  clear 
In  its  serenest  vestment,  light  winds  play 
And  sport  along  the  billows,  far  and  near 
Earth,  air,  and  sea,  are  beautiful,  a  sphere 
Of  purest  light  o'erhangs  thee,  full  the  sail 
Swells,  as  the  north-wind,  in  its  mild  career, 
With  the  still  breathing  of  a  summer  gale, 
O'er  the  long-rolling  deep  doth  steadily  prevail. 
13 


08 


On  with  thy  voyage  !  leave  the  darker  shore, 
Where  keener  spirits  feel  their  light  grow  dim, 
And  as  thy  white  wing  hastens  on  before 
The  breath  of  heaven,  exalt  thy  farewell  hymn  ; 
Weave  the  fresh  flowers  to  crown  thy  goblet's  brim, 
And  pour  thy  offering  to  the  Powers,  who  keep 
Watch  o'er  the  waters,  while  the  vessel's  rim 
Rides  low  along  the  green  wave,  up  the  steep 
Climbing,  or  sinking  soft  into  the  furrowed  deep. 

On  o'er  the  boundless  waters  !  thou  wilt  bear 

Prayers  for  mild  winds  and  sunshine;  every  soul, 

That  hath  a  portion  of  Heaven's  fire,  will  share 

In  all  thy  fortunes  :  whether  ocean  roll 

Calm  in  a  mellowed  brightness,  or  the  whole 

Wrath  of  the  tempest  lash  it,  still  steer  on, 

Joyous  or  firm  in  courage;  Man's  control 

Is  on  the  sea,  and  proudest  wreaths  are  won 

Alone  in  those  wild  storms  where  hardest  deeds  are  done. 


Up  with  thy  swelling  canvass  !  now  the  gale 
Woos  thee  to  strain  thy  cordage,  down  the  bay 
The  small  waves  fleet  like  quick  streams  down  the 
Speeding  o'er  polished  stones  their  babbling  wayj 
The  shrill  voice  of  the  air  forbids  thy  stay, 
It  summons  thee  to  take  the  gift,  it  throws 
With  such  a  smile  before  thee  :  —  now  when  day 
Sits  on  its  high  throne,  and  the  pure  sky  glows 
Unclouded,  as  the  form  of  things  in  beauty  rosej 


Now,  in  this  noon  of  life,  this  jubilee 

Of  the  united  elements,  this  flow 

Of  soul  from  eye  to  eye,  this  harmony 

Of  all  that  shine  above  with  all  below 

In  their  unfaded  loveliness,  this  glow 

Of  Nature  in  its  manhood ;  now  expand 

All  to  the  embrace  of  the  sweet  airs,  that  blow 

Wafting  fresh  odours  from  the  bowers  they  fanned, 

To  meet  the  sweeter  breath  of  a  diviner  land : 

Where  on  the  coast  the  flowering  myrtles  bend, 

Laden  with  Love's  own  garlands ;  in  its  rear 

Towers  a  fair  summit,  where  all  treasures  blend, 

That  Spring  showers  from  her  full  urn;  one  may  hear 

Voices  that  speak  all  melody,  tones  dear 

To  young  hearts,  as  the  tones  of  those  we  love ; 

Sweeter  the  mellow  touch,  the  more  we  near 

The  thicket  where  it  dwells,  as  from  her  cove     (grove. 

The  stock-dove's  widowed  voice  comes  wailing  thro'  the 

Such  is  the  land  that  welcomes  thee  afar 

To  cut  thy  long  bright  track,  and  proudly  go, 

Led  by  the  light  of  a  celestial  star, 

That  from  its  seat  of  beauty  sparkles  so, 

As  mind  from  its  dark  portal;  in  the  flow 

Of  the  broad  stream  of  ocean,  with  the  sky 

The  dome  to  crown  thy  temple,  and  the  glow 

Of  suns  to  light  and  cheer  thee,  send  on  high,        (die ; 

From  off  thy  full-toned  harp,  sounds  that  should  never 


100 

But  with  the  hymns  that  have  been  sung  of  old, 
Burning  on  lips  of  inspiration,  glowing 
Deep  in  those  ancient  hearts  of  keener  mould, 
With  tireless  energy  their  treasure  throwing 
In  lavish  gifts  around  them,  and  bestowing 
New  being  on  the  wanderer  of  the  wild ; 
Those  spirits  nerved  with  intellect,  all-knowing, 
Whose  voice  now  roused  in  terror,  now  they  smiled, 
Reading  soft  words  of  love  to  the  delighted  child ; 

With  these,  and  all  who  have  been  of  the  train, 

That  hold  the  power  of  harmony  to  give 

Joy  unto  others,  as  the  melting  rain 

Wakens  the  earth,  so  that  all  freshly  live, 

And,  as  again  in  infancy,  revive 

With  an  intenser  hue  and  shade  of  green, 

When  the  waked  bees  come  thicker  from  their  hive — 

O!  when  these  lords  of  harmony  convene,  (scene. 

There  be  the  farewell  hymn  that  paints  the  parting 

Farewell  to  the  lost  land,  where  life  was  young, 

And  the  fresh  earth  seemed  lovely;  where  the  heart 

First  felt  the  thrill  of  ecstacy,  when  strung 

With  its  fine  tender  chords,  all  could  impart 

Joy  to  its  laughing  innocence — -I  start 

To  find  I  am  so  cold,  where  all  before 

Was  tinctured  with  divinity — we  part, 

Land  of  my  early  loves !  thy  once  bright  shore 

Has  lost  its  dearest  charm — Farewell !  we  meet  no  more. 


101 

The  world  that  is,  seems  Eden  to  the  child 

The  rainbows  on  a  bubble  are  a  spell 

To  chain  him  in  sweet  wonder;  O!  how  wild 

Do  the  first  wakened  throbs  of  feeling  swell, 

There  is  no  music  like  the  village  bell, 

That  o'er  the  far  hills  sends  its  silver  sound, 

There  is  no  beauty  like  the  forms,  that  dwell 

In  flower  and  bud,  and  shell  and  insect,  found,  (round. 

When  through  the  watered  vale  we  take   our  infant 

But  this  is  for  the  new  mind — soon  we  tire 

Of  all  this  simple  loveliness,  we  form 

Within  a  magic  fane,  whose  sun-gilt  spire 

Burns  in  the  azure  firmament — the  storm 

Is  portion  of  its  majesty,  we  warm, 

Not  tremble  in  the  lightning's  vivid  glare — 

Sounds  must  be  heard  from  Heaven,  that  they  inform 

The  spirit  with  the  life  of  thought,  and  bear,        (dare. 

Through  all  their  unseen  flight,  the  souls  that  upward 

The  world  imagined,  to  the  world  we  feel, 
Is  glory  and  magnificence;  we  turn 
From  earth  in  sated  weariness,  but  kneel 
Before  the  pomp  we  dream  of — when  the  urn 
Holds  all  that  now  hath  form  and  life,  we  spurn 

The  shackles,  that  debase  us  and  confine; 

I 

Deep  in  its  central  fountain  mind  will  burn 
Brighter  in  darkness,  like  the  gems  that  shine 
With  a  fixed  eye  of  fire,  the  stars  of  cave  and  mine. 


102 

When  the  gay  visions  once  so  fair  are  fled, 
When  time  has  dropped  his  rose-wreaths,  and  his  brow 
Hath  only  snows  to  shade  it;  hearts  have  bled, 
And  healed  themselves  to  be  all  callous;  now 
In  the  cold  years  of  vanished  hope,  we  plough 
And  sow  in  barrenness  to  reap  in  blight — 
Then  the  soul  in  its  solitude  doth  bow 
To  its  own  grandeur,  and  from  outer  night 
Turns  to  the  world  within,  and  finds  all  love  and  light- 
Darkness  hath  then  no  covering,  but  its  veil 
Is  as  a  pictured  curtain  o'er  a  scene, 
That  hides  the  life  of  some  bewitching  tale, 
And  is  itself  all  beauty ;  on  the  green 
Before  an  ancient  temple  walks  the  queen 
Of  smiles,  dispensing  happiness  to  choirs 
Of  youths  and  maidens,  whose  ecstatic  mien 
Tells  of  the  heart  within,  whose  keen  desires 
Burn  with  the  pure  flame  lit  from  Love's  Olympian  fires. 

Not  kindled  from  the  altar,  which  below 

Stood  in  Idalia,  bowered  in  myrtle  shades, 

The  shrine  of  him  who  bore  the  burning  bow, 

Whose  earthly  passion,  ere  it  ripens,  fades : 

'Tis  the  one  Spirit,  who  with  light  pervades 

The  infinite  of  being,  but  controls 

Alike  the  insect  floating  through  the  glades 

On  the  soft  air  of  June,  or  human  souls 

New  in  their  merry  mom,  or  all  that  lives  and  rolls 


103 

Wide  through  the  waste  of  ether,  sun,  or  star, 

All  linked  by  Harmony,  which  is  the  chain, 

That  binds  to  earth  the  orbs,  that  wheel  afar 

Through  the  blue  fields  of  Nature's  wide  domain ; 

From  the  last  glimmerer  in  the  starry  train, 

To  that  which  is  to  us  the  God  of  day, 

From  the  beam  glancing  on  the  tossing  main, 

To  the  full  floods,  that  o'er  creation  play, 

And  feed  the  lamps  of  life,  all  feel  that  boundless  sway. 

Love  is  attraction,  and  attraction  love — 

The  meeting  of  two  fond  eyes,  and  the  beat 

Of  two  accordant  pulses  are  above 

Planets,  that  always  tend,  but  never  meet: 

To  us,  that  have  a  feeling,  love  is  sweet, 

The  life  of  our  existence,  the  great  aim 

Of  all  our  hope  and  beauty — but  they  fleet, 

Moments  of  fond  endearment — years  will  tame 

The  electric  throb  of  bliss,  and  quench  the  spirit's  flame. 

But  yet  there  is  to  us  a  purer  light, 

And  that  is  in  the  beautiful  unfading, 

The  mould,  wherein  all  phantoms  of  delight 

Are  fashioned  into  loveliness;  the  shading 

Of  earth  may  give  it  softness,  kindly  aiding 

The  weakness  of  our  feebler  nature,  while 

Mind  has  not  fledged  its  pinions ;  soon  pervading 

Space  in  its  daring,  as  a  long-sought  isle, 

Tt  turns  with  naked  gaze  to  that  Eternal  smile, 


104  FERCIVAL'S   POEMS. 

Whose  charm  is  on  the  Universe,  the  blue 

Mellowed  with  light's  full  essence  on  the  sphere 

Wrapping  us  in  its  mantle,  whence  the  dew 

Falls  clear  and  pearly,  like  a  tender  tear 

Shed  on  the  hues,  that  fade  so  quickly  here, 

But  are  awhile  so  beautiful — the  sea 

That  smooths  its  gold,  or,  as  the  light  winds  veer, 

Crisps  it,  or  decks  it  o'er  with  stars — the  sea 

Takes  all  it  hath  to  charm,  Eternal  Love  !  from  thee. 

And  thee  the  fountain's  worship,  where  they  lie 

Curling  in  silent  loveliness,  or  sending 

Through  the  flowered  vale,  the  brook  that  prattles  by, 

Twinkling  o'er  polished  pebbles;  willows  bending 

Wave  in  thy  soft  breath,  when  its  fragrance  lending 

Balm  to  the  new  spring  makes  the  Earth  perfume: 

All  hues,  that  o'er  the  tufted  meadow  blending, 

As  the  wind  sinks  or  rises  oft,  assume  (bloom. 

New  shades  and  tints,  in  thee  expand  their  buds  and 

In  thee  all  creatures  gladden,  on  the  air 
Moving  their  filmy  wings,  or  calm  at  sail 
Skimming  the  winding  water  sheeted  fair, 
As  the  sun  walks  above  it — their  bright  mail 
Burns  on  the  polished  mirror,  which  doth  vail 
To  the  bossed  form,  that  studs  it  like  a  gem — 
Whether  their  serried  pinions  cut  the  gale, 
Or  their  quick-glancing  fins  the  current  stem, 
Or  earth  is  their  domain — Thy  life  enkindles  them. 


105 

And  Man  becomes  thy  worshipper,  when  first 
The  sense  of  beauty  wakens  him  to  kneel 
Before  the  images,  which  thou  hast  nurst, 
And  stamped  them  with  thy  deep  eternal  seal; 
Forms  from  which  age  and  ruin  cannot  steal 
The  pure  free  grace  of  nature — but  they  wear 
The  magic  charm,  in  which  we  live  and  feel 
That  we  have  caught  a  higher  sense,  and  bear 
New  wrought  within  our  souls  the  essence  of  the  fair. 

And  to  those  forms  of  light  our  wishes  tend, 

And  our  fixed  longing  is  to  stand  and  gaze, 

Where,  to  the  Parian  stone  the  mind  doth  lend 

Its  own  divinity,  and  pour  its  rays 

Harmonious  o'er  the  canvass,  where  life  plays 

In  the  flushed  cheek,  blue  veins,  and  speaking  eye, 

And  lip  with  passion  trembling — Mind  can  raise 

From  its  unseen  conceptions,  where  they  lie 

Bright  in  their  mine,  forms,  hues,  that  look  Eternity; 

That  send  through  the  long  waste  of  ages,  pure 
From  the  corruption  of  a  grosser  time, 
Those  models  of  perfection,  which  endure, 
The  guides  of  all  the  graceful  and  sublime 
In  our  own  nature,  fashioned  in  the  clime 
Of  the  sweet  myrtle,  and  the  kindling  vine, 
Of  roseate  skies,  green  vales,  and  rocks  that  climb 
Amid  the  never-wasting  snows,  and  shine 
In  the  glad  Sun — the  seat  of  all  they  held  divine. 

14 


v. 


106 

It  was  from  gazing  on  the  fairy  hues 

That  hung  around  the  born  and  dying  day, 

The  tender  flush,  whose  mellow  stain  imbues 

Heaven  with  all  freaks  of  light,  and  where  it  lay 

Deep-bosomed  in  a  still  and  waveless  bay, 

The  sea  reflected  all  that  glowed  above, 

Till  a  new  sky,  softer  but  not  so  gay, 

Arched  in  its  bosom,  trembled  like  a  dove, 

When  o'er  her  silken  plumes  wanders  the  light  of  love. 

It  was  from  gazing  on  them,  when  the  flowers 
First  wakened  from  their  wintry  sleep,  and  flung 
Their  first  warm  tints  o'er  garden  beds  and  bowers, 
When  from  the  temple  roof  the  swallow  sung, 
•And  in  the  thorny  thicket  sweetly  rung,  (tone 

Through  the  still  moonlight  hours,  the  heart-breathed 
Of  the  lone  warbler — when  the  loosed  steed  sprung 
Bright  o'er  the  sounding  plain,  and  the  charmed  zone, 
In  one  soft  twine  of  love,  round  all  that  lived  was  thrown. 

When  there  were  dances  in  the  Platane  shades, 

And  the  vine-arbours  breathed  with  music — Night 

Looked  from  her  starry  throne  on  youths  and  maids8 

Bounding  and  shouting  in  their  full  delight, 

From  the  round  orb  of  azure  sparkled  bright 

The  spirit  in  its  ecstacy,  wreathed  gold 

Flowed  tressed  behind  thern^  as  their  footsteps  light 

Leaped  in  the  mazy  ring,  and  the  wide  fold 

Of  mantles  waved  to  fly  the  clasping  girdle's  hold : 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  107 

And  feeling  voices  blended  with  the  lute, 

Raising  the  hymn  to  beauty  and  to  love, 

The  parent  and  the  infant  boy — the  flute, 

In  tempered  sweetness,  flowing  like  the  dove 

In  her  deep  sorrow,  from  the  elm  above 

The  dark  stream  sleeping  in  seclusion ;  so, 

As  the  voice  ceased,  and  Echo  from  her  cove 

Answered,  the  flute,  in  one  continual  flow, 

Breathed  every  winding  note  and  falling  touch  of  woe : 

And  smiles  were  changed  to  tears,  the  dance  became 

Still,  and  the  dancers  breathless;  you  might  see 

In  the  soft  dews  of  sorrow  quenched  the  flame 

Of  buoyant  passion ; — soon  the  sound  of  glee 

Rang  on  the  merry  cymbal,  then  all  free, 

As  the  winds  hurry  o'er  the  mountains,  beat, 

In  numbered  steps  attuned  to  melody, 

Round  the  close-shaven  green  their  glancing  feet, 

Light  as  the  spotted  fawns  through  Tegean  forests  fleet. 

And  there  the  pencil  and  the  chisel  drew 

Apollos  and  Dianas ;  there  they  wrought 

Into  one  form  the  charms  that  nature  threw 

Round  the  fair  youth  of  Athens ;  there  they  sought 

All  the  soft  lines  of  elegance,  and  caught 

The  grandeur  too  of  loveliness,  which  lends 

Power  to  the  young  god;  there  they  culled  and  brought 

From  innocent  forms  the  perfect  grace,  which  sends 

Such  magic  on  the  heart  of  youth,  that  awed  it  bends. 


108  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS, 

Once  they  were  planted  in  a  marble  fane 

Built  to  the  Power  that  in  the  statue  stood, 

Or  underneath  the  blue  sky  on  the  plain, 

Or  in  the  shadow  of  a  sacred  wood, 

Or  where  the  poplar  quivered  o'er  the  flood, 

Itself  in  air,  its  image  glassed  below : 

But  now  they  stand,  the  artist's  holy  food, 

Where  the  high  dome  permits  the  light  to  flow, 

Aloft  above  the  crowd  that  wondering  gaze  below. 

And  there  they  stand,  still  perfect;  though  the  stain 

Of  centuries  has  lent  to  them  a  hue, 

Which  tells  of  age  and  change,  't  is  not  in  vain, 

But  is  their  triumph :  they  have  risen  through 

The  roar  of  ruin  round  them,  to  renew 

Taste  in  the  land  of  music,  and  of  form, 

And  tint,  and  shade — So  eagerly  we  view 

The  long-tost  bark,  that  rudely  beat  the  storm,   (swarm. 

And  rode  unharmed,  unwrecked,  where  all  its  terrors 

They  stand  replete  with  life,  the  marble  speaks, 
And  the  cold  eye  looks  passion;  they  might  tell 
Of  cultured  fields,  where  now  the  dead  fen  reeks, 
Of  pomp  and  feast,  where  bats  and  night  birds  dwell; 
Though  from  their  first-raised  pedestal  they  fell, 
Yet  they  revived  in  glory.     It  is  sure, 
Stamped  by  the  seal  of  nature,  that  the  well 
Of  Mind,  where  all  its  waters  gather  pure, 
Shall  with  unquestioned  spell  all  meaner  hearts  allure. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  109 

We  gaze  on  them,  and  on  the  ancient  page, 
And  read  its  mystic  characters,  which  seem. 
Through  the  expanding  haziness  of  age, 
The  fading  forms  of  a  majestic  dream. 
Cold  is  the  heart,  that  not  on  such  a  theme 
Feels  the  warm  spirit  kindle — 't  is  the  sound 
Of  a  gone  trumpet  rolling  on  the  stream 
Of  Time,  and  catching  still  at  each  rebound 
Deeper  and  clearer  tones  to  bear  its  warning  round, 

And  ever  waken  from  the  dull  repose 

Of  peace  and  plenty,  where  we  waste  in  rust 

That  love  of  high  emprise,  which  ever  glows, 

When  the  roused  mind  hath  sternly  shook  the  dust 

From  off  its  robe,  and  in  a  child-like  trust 

To  its  own  inspiration,  and  the  power 

That  speaks  from  buried  nations,  at  the  bust 

Of  ancient  mind  gives  worship,  in  the  hour      (shower. 

When  the  waked  eyes  of  Heaven  their  tempering  influence 

Language  of  Gods  and  Godlike  men !  thy  tone 

First  sounded  on  Olympus  from  the  lyre 

Of  the  glad  virgins,  when  around  the  throne 

They  raised  the  joyful  Paean,  in  a  choir 

Alternate  with  Apollo,  sitting  higher, 

The  sovereign  of  all  harmony — thence  came 

That  sounding  speech,  whose  words,  imbued  with  fire, 

Could  the  wild  wave  of  Athens  bend  and  tame, 

And  wreath  the  Poet's  harp  with  locks  of  lambent  flame. 


110  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

Thy  faintest  tone  is  music — when  thy  words 

Come  o'er  my  ear,  I  seem  on  wings  at  play 

With  every  bard  who  sung  thee,  like  the  birds, 

Who  feed  on  dewy  air,  and  float  in  day, 

Speeding  in  endless  round  their  lives  away, 

Aloft  above  the  region  of  the  storm, 

Where  nought  can  soil  their  golden  plumes,  nor  stay 

Their  swift  career — no  sudden  gust  deform 

The  beauty  of  their  flight,  but  all  is  still  and  warm. 

And  the  clear  sun  stands  over  them,  his  hair 

Waves  gloriously  athwart  the  perfect  blue; 

There  is  no  rustling  in  the  deep  calm  air, 

But  one  eternal  tide  is  rolling  through 

The  far  expanse,  and  thus  it  ever  drew 

The  waves  of  Ether  in  its  willing  train; 

Higher  than  ever  wing  of  eagle  flew, 

Or  white  curl  dimmed  the  noon-vault  with  its  stain, 

There,  bird  of  Eden,  spreads  thy  pure  and  bright  domain. 

And  thou  too  hast  a  voice,  and  oft  at  night, 
When  thy  wing  winds  among  the  stars,  Jt  is  said 
By  those  who  watch  the  sky  in  fixed  delight, 
On  fairy  dreams  of  wooing  fortune  led, 
When  the  cools  winds,  around  the  flowery  bed 
Hid  in  the  garden  alcove,  long  delay, 
Because  the  spot  is  fragrant,  then  't  is  said 
The  midnight  gazer  hears  thee  far  away, 
Like  a  sweet  angel's  voice,  salute  the  coming  day. 


Ill 


Fit  image  of  those  subtile  kindled  souls, 

Who  spurned  at  baseness,  and  arose  from  earth 

Indignantly,  who  fixed  in  Heaven  their  goals, 

Whose  only  rival  was  departed  worth ; 

Whose  restless  passion  laboured  in  the  birth 

Of  moral  greatness — whether  on  the  page, 

Statue,  or  canvass,  round  the  quiet  hearth, 

On  the  loud  Pynx,  or  in  the  sanguine  rage 

Of  fight — they  sought  to  charm  an<jl  conquer  every  age. 

And  this  with  such  a  language,  sweetly  blending 

All  in  one  round  of  fulness,  that  it  flowed 

A  streamlet  or  a  torrent,  ocean  sending 

Its  blue  waves  on  its  rocky  barrier — glowed 

Sparkles  of  beauty  thickly  o'er  it — strode 

Mind  on  its  breast,  like  Gods,  who  sail  through  air 

Throned  on  a  tempest  cloud — whether  the  ode 

Burned,  or  the  epic  thundered,  or  the  fair  (there. 

Fond  Lesbian  sighed  and  wooed,  the  magic  sound  was 

Yes,  but  the  accent,  the  nice  touch  and  tone, 
Have  perished  with  the  tongues  whose  melody 
Was  Music's  essence — Yes,  the  sound  has  flown 
With  the  keen  life  aloft,  where  it  will  be 
Absorbed  and  blended  in  Eternity, 
The  spirit  of  a  grander,  purer  time : 
Language  of  Heaven,  O  lend  thy  voice  to  me ! 
Give  me  the  perfect  note,  the  tempered  chime, 
That  I  at  times  may  feel  and  live  with  the  sublime ; 


112 

That  I  may  read  the  rhapsodies  and  odes, 

And  proud  harangues,  and  flowing  histories, 

Those  flights,  where  mortals  mingled  with  the  Gods, 

And  threw  their  eye  beyond  the  life  that  is; 

Those  sun-bright  lessons  of  the  good  and  wise, 

Those  golden  songs  of  a  diviner  age — 

O !  could  my  mind  but  gain  that  long-sought  prize, 

O!  could  I  take  the  early  Grecian  rage, 

And  pour  Homeric  fire  along  my  wandering  page — 

There  should  be  altars  to  thee,  and  the  flame 

Should  be  ethereal,  no  gross  earthly  fire 

Should  taint  their  marble  purity,  but  tame 

The  spark  of  Heaven  should  tremble  down  the  wire, 

And  with  the  lightest  element  conspire, 

To  roll  full  floods  of  snowy  light  to  thee, 

And  I  would  warm  my  spirit  in  that  pyre, 

And  all,  that  lives  within  my  heart,  should  be 

Devoted  to  thy  will,  Eternal  Harmony ! 

Are  there  not  moments,  when  we  fly  from  earth, 

And  dwell  in  ether  ?  Are  there  no  bright  hours 

Along  the  dull  of  life?  Is  not  the  dearth 

Of  feeling  quickened,  and  the  dormant  powers 

Wakened,  by  living  with  the  domes  and  towers 

We  fly  to  o'er  the  bounding  sea? — O  fane 

Of  Grecian  wisdom !  that  in  ruin  lours 

Over  the  rage  of  ignorance,  again  (stain. 

Thou  shalt  be  bright,  renewed,  and  pure  from  every 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  113 

And  I  would  go,  and  worship  at  thy  door; 

I  dare  not  enter,  where  thy  form  doth  rear 

That  beaming  lance,  which  stilled  the  battle's  roar, 

And  stopped  the  clang  of  sword,  the  hum  of  spear, 

Cutting  the  murk  air  in  its  dark  career, 

And  thirsting  for  the  shouting  warrior's  blood; 

I  feel  within  my  soul  a  holy  fear 

Forbidding  me  to  enter  thy  abode,  (trod. 

Where  none  but  grandest  minds  and  purest  hearts  have 

Wisdom  enshrined  in  beauty — O !  how  high 

The  order  of  that  loveliness ;  the  blue 

That  rolls  and  flashes  in  thy  full  round  eye, 

Thy  forehead  arched  with  such  a  stainless  hue, 

As  crowns  the  eternal  mountains  lifted  through 

The  gathered  night  of  clouds,  the  smile,  the  frown, 

Blended  in  sweetness — ail  in  thee  can  view 

How  mind  and  virtue  linked,  alone  bring  down    (crown. 

On  mortal  heads  from  Heaven  the  star-wreathed  laurel 

Would  I  might  stand  beneath  thy  temple's  roof, 
Closed  from  the  entrance  of  all  common  light, 
From  all  the  sound  and  stir  of  man  aloof, 
Whose  dark  air  makes  thy  aegis  doubly  bright, 
As  the  broad  flash  glares  through  the  cloud  of  night 
With  an  intenser  redness — could  I  stand 
Beneath  thy  roof,  and  from  thy  pure  lips  write 
The  volume  of  all  Truth,  but  no !  my  hand 
Will  not — I  am  not  one  by  whom  thy  lore  is  scanned. 

15 


114  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

No — I  should  rather  fly  among  the  bowers 

That  bloom  around  the  Idalian  dome,  and  take 

From  soft  Sicilian  plains  the  leaves  and  flowers, 

Of  which  a  coronal  of  love  to  make — 

Better  for  me  a  seat  beside  the  lake, 

Where  the  enchanter  erst  his  wild  harp  hung 

To  moulder  in  the  birches — why  not  wake 

Those  witching  notes  again?  Shall  they  be  flung  (strung? 

To  the  wild  mountain  winds  from  chords  so  long  un- 

And  now  I  turn  me  to  the  misty  island, 

Which  rises  with  its  white  cliffs  from  the  ocean, 

I  turn  to  where  the  storm  broods  on  the  highland. 

And  the  sea  lifts  its  waves  in  angry  motion, 

And  there  again  I  feel  a  new  devotion 

Come  with  a  spell  of  power  athwart  me;  light 

Burns,  blazes  over  Greece,  but  wild  commotion 

Heaves  in  the  bosoms  of  the  north ;  their  flight  (night. 

Is  on  the  whirlwind's  wing,  their  home  the  womb  of 

They  follow  nature,  who  hath  girt  their  hills 

With  a  dark  belt  of  pines,  whose  fitful  roar, 

Far  wafted  on  the  wind,  the  stout  heart  fills 

With  its  own  wild  sublimity;  the  shore 

Breasts  the  rude  shock  of  waves,  that  rush  before 

The  north  wind  bursting  from  the  icy  pole ; 

Yon  peaks,  that  lift  their  foreheads  bald  and  hoar, 

Where  the  long  wreaths,  that  tell  of  tempest,  roll, 

Stamp  mightily  and  deep  their  grandeur  on  the  soul. 


PERCIVAI/S    POEMS.  115 

They  love  the  rock,  whose  dark  brow  beetles  far 

Into  the  wallowing  ocean,  whose  white  waves 

Join  round  the  thundering  crag  in  mingled  war, 

Where  in  the  hollow  cavern  echo  raves, 

Like  the  long  groans  that  seem  to  come  from  graves, 

When  sheeted  spectres  burst  their  cerements;  high 

The  gannet  wheels  and  screams,  then,  stooping,  braves 

The  fury  of  the  surge  that  rushes  by, 

And  then  rolls  dim  and  far  to  mingle  with  the  sky. 

Their  home  is  on  the  mountain,  where  in  mist 
They  darkly  dwell,  and  when  the  hollow  sound 
Of  the  crushed  woods  comes  on,  they  fondly  list 
To  hear  the  winds  wake  up,  and  gather  round, 
Till  from  each  rocky  battlement  they  bound, 
Mingling  and  deepening,  like  the  waves  in  war, 
Which  on  the  mid-sea  heave  and  strive  around 
The  rock,  that  dares  their  madness;  loud  afar 
Rolls  on  the  foam-lit  main  the  rush  of  Odin's  car. 

And  when  the  night  comes  down,  and  deeper  gloom 
Falls  on  the  cloud,  that  wraps  the  height  in  shade, 
When  the  mist  moves  away,  and  opens  room 
To  catch  a  glimpse  of  lakes  in  moon-light  laid, 
For  all  below  is  by  the  clear  wind  made 
Serene  in  brightness,  then  the  lone  bard  throws 
A  glance  on  distant  beauty,  and  the  maid, 
White  as  the  foam  that  on  the  lashed  wave  rose, 
Sits  lonely  in  her  bower,  and  weeps  her  tender  woes. 


116  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

Their  tenderness  is  dark;  it  hath  the  hue 

Of  their  own  watery  skies,  and  thence  they  bear 

Its  tints  of  paleness,  for  the  light  sent  through 

The  floating  veil  of  mist,  that  dims  the  air, 

Sheds  a  faint  glimmering  on  the  landscape  there, 

So  that  the  earth  seems  weeping;  when  they  mourn 

Their  tones  are  wild  but  soft;  they  do  not  tear 

With  a  new  pang  the  heart  already  torn, 

That  finds  in  the  still  look,  what  kills,  yet  must  be  borne. 

The  soaring  of  their  heights  uplifts  the  soul, 

And  gives  their  heaven-ward  daring  to  the  heart, 

And  the  tossed  waves,  that  midway  round  them  roll, 

Seeming  below,  as  if  they  were  a  part 

Of  a  new  ocean  raging  there,  will  dart 

Their  sternness  on  the  eye,  that  loves  to  rise 

From  the  low  vale,  and  as  it  gazes  start 

To  see  above  them  floating  in  the  skies 

Peaks  white  with  eldest  snow,  and  gilt  with  sunset  dies. 

Dofra,  thy  brow  is  in  that  upper  air, 

No  cloud  e'er  went  as  high,  the  eagle's  wing 

Has  been  thy  only  visitant,  thy  bare 

And  pillared  cone  is  such  a  glorious  thing 

To  the  far-gazing  Norseman,  when  the  sting 

Of  a  fond  love  of  country  prompts  him  on 

To  worship  at  thy  base,  and  upward  spring 

To  thy  eternal  walls,  which  in  the  sun 

Flash  far  and  purely  forth,  when  the  long  day  is  done. 


117 

Far  round  thy  fir-shagged  base  the  torrent  winds, 
Hoarse  as  the  voice  of  Liberty,  who  bears 
With  open  breast  the  tempest,  when  it  binds 
Seas  in  its  chain  of  frost,  whose  brow  still  wears 
Part  of  its  once  deep  frown,  the  will  that  dares 
All,  when  invasion  threats — that  torrent  leaps 
Down  the  dark  gulf,  and  with  its  dashing  tears 
The  rock  in  deeper  rents,  and  ever  keeps 
Wild  music  in  the  wood,  that  o'er  it  bends  and  weeps; 

The  roar  of  waters,  and  the  rush  of  winds  (throw 

Through  the  black  boughs,  whose  tangled  branches 
Night  o'er  the  rift,  where  the  dashed  vapour  blinds, 
And  distant  down  the  gushing  waters  glow 
In  their  intense  convulsion,  as  they  go 
Plunging  and  lifting  high  their  frothy  swell; 
Then,  as  a  new-sprung  arrow,  on  they  flow, 
Roaring  along  a  pit  that  seems  a  hell, 
Where  the  shook  caverns  ring  their  echoes  like  a  knell. 

So  Mind  takes  colour  from  the  cloud,  the  storm, 
The  ocean,  and  the  torrent:  where  clear  skies 
Brighten  and  purple  o'er  an  earth,  whose  form 
In  the  sweet  dress  of  southern  summer  lies, 
Man  drinks  the  beauty  with  his  gladdened  eyes, 
And  sends  it  out  in  music — where  the  strand 
Sounds  with  the  surging  waves,  that  proudly  rise 
To  meet  the  frowning  clouds,  the  soul  is  manned 
To  mingle  in  their  wrath,  and  be  as  darkly  grand. 


I 


118 


Nature !  when  looking  on  thee,  I  become 

Renewed  to  my  first  being,  and  am  pure, 

As  thou  art  bright  and  lovely;  from  the  hum 

Of  cities,  where  men  linger  and  endure 

That  wasting  death,  which  kills  them  with  a  sure 

But  long-felt  torture,  I  now  haste  away 

To  climb  thy  rugged  rocks,  and  find  the  cure 

Of  all  my  evils,  and  again  be  gay 

In  the  clear  sun,  that  gilds  the  fair  autumnal  day. 

I  cannot  look  upon  those  cloudless  skies 
And  not  be  lifted,  for  they  seem  to  spread 
With  an  unbounded  vastness,  and  they  rise 

Beyond  the  height,  where  early  fancy,  led 

" 
By  its  own  grand  aspirings,  which  were  fed 

On  hopes  nursed  in  their  shrines  below,  had  given 
To  the  first  Powers  their  throne;  so,  o'er  my  head, 
As  by  an  ever-moving  hand  still  driven, 
Wider  and  wider  spreads  the  azure  deep  of  Heaven. 

I  gaze  and  I  am  vaster — thought  takes  wing 

From  off  the  rock  I  stand  on,  and  goes  far 

Into  the  pure  blue  gulf,  and  there  I  bring 

The  myriad  bands  of  night,  and  set  each  star 

In  its  peculiar  station,  till  they  wear 

All  forms  of  brightness,  and  a  magic  train, 

Show  all  the  fabled  world  in  picture  there, 

And  then  I  seem  to  range  them  o'er  again, 

Like  him  who  read  them  first  on  the  Chaldean  plain. 


119 


But  Nature !  thou  hast  more  beneath  me  bright 

In  their  rich  autumn  tints,  than  all  I  throw 

Over  the  crystal  arch,  whose  tranquil  light 

Takes  every  hue  of  mellowness  below ; 

It  kindles  in  the  orchard's  ruddy  glow, 

And  on  the  coloured  woods,  whose  dying  shade 

Crowns  the  tall  mountain  with  a  wreath,  whose  flow, 

Softly  descending  to  the  silent  glade, 

Seems  like  the  evening  cloud  in  airy  tints  arrayed. 

And  where  the  river  winds  along  the  vale, 

Bending  through  sloping  hills,  which  o'er  it  lift 

Oaks  faintly  yielding  to  the  rudest  gale, 

And  clinging  with  close  twining  to  the  rift 

Of  the  steep  rocks,  which,  as  the  wild  winds  drift 

The  rain-clouds  o'er  their  quivering  tops,  still  rise 

Contending  with  the  gust,  whose  flight  is  swift, 

Scouring  with  stormy  wing  the  cold  dun  skies, 

On  which  the  flock  look  up  with  faint  imploring  eyes. 

Through  that  low  watered  vale  a  sanguine  stream 
Winds,  where  the  maple  gives  its  leaf  a  hue 
Of  deepest  carmine,  and  those  wreathed  boughs*  teem 
With  the  same  tint  of  blood  and  berries  blue ; 
Deeper  their  contrast,  as  they  meet  us  through 
The  oak's  dark  russet  and  the  walnut's  brown ; 
There  we  might  weave  of  falling  leaves  a  new 
And  brighter  wreath  than  earth  e'er  gave,  to  crown 
The  sun  of  lower  life,  before  its  light  went  down. 
*  Tupelo. 


120 


There  is  a  pensive  spirit  in  those  woods, 
The  sighing  of  the  lone  wind  in  their  leaves 
Has  much  to  soften ;  there  the  sunk  heart  broods 
Intenser  o'er  its  many  wrongs,  and  grieves 
With  a  far  purer  sorrow;  it  believes, 
With  fond  illusion,  that  a  form  is  there 
Who  hath  her  sorrows  too;  and  then  he  weaves, 
Of  the  pale-tinted  flowers,  a  wreath,  to  bear 
On  his  dishevelled  locks,  the  garland  of  despair. 

To  look  upon  thy  form,  thou  dying  year, 

To  see  thy  brightest  honours  thickly  shed, 

As  withered  flowers  are  scattered  on  a  bier 

By  pious  hands,  who  mourn  a  loved  one  dead; 

To  think  how  all,  that  spring  and  summer  spread 

Of  freshness  and  maturity,  are  torn 

By  the  rude  winds;  how  coldly  in  their  stead 

The  crusted  frost  hangs  glimmering  on  the  thorn, 

And  bends  the  widowed  boughs,  that  stoop  as  if  forlorn : 

To  think  on  this,  and  on  the  breathing  hues, 

That  wreathed  the  same  earth  in  its  fairest  prime, 

When  the  glad  season  with  its  life  imbues 

The  very  clods,  and  wakens  from  the  slime 

Of  the  low  marsh,  new  forms,  that  spread  a  time 

A  pictured  mantle  o'er  it ;  when  it  blows, 

Mocking  the  beauty  of  a  tropic  clime, 

Where  one  eternal  round  of  flowering  throws     (glows : 

New  bloom  to  crown  the  fruit,  that  swells  and  ripening 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  121 

To  think  on  infancy,  and  then  on  death, 

In  the  wild  herb,  or  those  fair  forms  we  bind 

Close  to  our  hearts,  as  if  their  life  and  breath 

Were  portion  of  our  being,  where  the  mind 

Is  heightened,  and  all  sympathies  refined 

To  that  high  state,  where  we  are  not  our  own. 

To  think  on  death — to  leave  the  looks,  that  wind 

Round  all  our  thoughts  their  tenderness — alone 

To  sit  and  hear  the  winds  make  sad  and  solemn  moan 

Through  the  dark  pines,  whose  foliage,  in  the  sway 
Of  fitful  gusts,  waves  mournfully,  and  throws 
From  its  fine  threads  a  sound,  that  sinks  away 
Faintly  and  sweetly,  to  a  dying  close, 
Like  a  soft  air  to  which  the  boatman  rows, 
Over  the  moon-lit  lake  his  gliding  keel, 
Which  comes  more  calmly,  for  the  still  wind  blows 
So  meekly  through  the  summer  night,  we  feel 
Scarce  on  our  wakeful  ear  the  whispered  echo  steal; 

To  think  on  death,  and  how  it  rends  the  links 
Of  long  and  close  communion,  how  it  tears 
One  and  another  chord,  till  the  heart  sinks 
Without  one  friend,  on  whom  to  lay  its  cares, 
And  take  his  in  return; — the  spirit  bears 
Better  a  loved  one's  woes,  than  those  it  feels 
Spring  in  its  own  lost  hopes ; — the  heart  that  shares 
With  a  long  bosom  friend  his  burdens,  heals 
Its  wounds,  and  still  is  soft; — alone,  their  closing  steels : 
16 


122  PEHCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

JT  is  good  to  think  on  death — it  bends  the  will 
From  that  stern  purpose,  which  no  man  can  hold 
And  yet  be  happy; — we  must  go  and  fill 
Thought  with  affection,  where  pale  mourners  fold 
The  shroud  around  those  chill  limbs,  whose  fair  mould 
Imaged  unearthly  beauty.     Why  not  blend 
With  tears  awhile,  and  leave  that  stern,  that  cold 
Contempt  of  all  that  waits  us,  when  we  end 
Our  proud  career  in  death,  where  all,  hope  lifted,  bend. 

5T  is  good  to  hold  communion  with  the  dead, 

To  walk  the  lane,  where  bending  willows  throw 

Gloom  o'er  the  dark  green  turf,  ere  day  is  fled. 

And  cast  deep  shadow  on  the  tomb  below; 

For,  as  we  muse  thus  silently,  we  know 

The  worth  of  all  our  longings,  and  we  pay 

New  worship  unto  purity,  and  so 

We  gather  strength  to  take  our  toilsome  way, 

Which  must  be  meekly  borne,  or  life  be  thrown  away. 

Better  live  long  and  tranquilly,  if  pure, 
Than  rush  into  the  madness  of  a  crowd, 
Where  all  are  eager  for  the  prize,  none  sure ; 
Where  busy  voices  clamour  long  and  loud, 
And  man,  shows  in  the  strife,  how  feebly  proud 
Are  his  best  aims  to  raise  himself,  and  cast 
His  fellows  in  his  rear — how  keen,  when  bowed 
Beneath  a  firmer  heel,  he  finds  at  last,  (past. 

Are  the  condemning  thoughts,  that  mock  him,  of  the 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  123 


But  I  must  turn  again  to  higher  themes, 

And,  from  the  lifted  summit  where  I  stand, 

Casting  a  rapid  glance  o'er  hills  and  streams., 

That  chequer  with  their  light  a  happy  land, 

Must  find  again  my  better  powers  expand 

To  a  fit  harmony  with  earth  and  sky, 

Which  spread  before  me,  with  so  vast  a  hand, 

Those  forms  that  seem  to  bear  eternity 

Stamped  on  their  iron  brows,  where  age  will  ever  be 

The  gray  rocks,  and  the  mountains  wrapped  in  blue, 
Towering  far  distant  through  the  silent  air, 
That  sleeps  in  noon-light,  but  in  morning  blew 
Fresh  o'er  the  russet  plain,  and  scattered  there 
Shadows  from  flitting  clouds,  that  earth  seemed  fair 
Rob'd  in  a  sheet  of  light,  and  then  grew  dim ; — 
Far  distant  through  the  haze,  those  mountains  bear 
Sky-lifted  walls,  that  frown  along  the  brim 
Of  earth,  and  as  I  gaze,  in  vapour  seem  to  swim. 

They  rise  with  twofold  vastness  through  the  dun 
And  quivering  air,  that  broods  along  the  heath, 
Which  gilds  its  dark  waste  with  the  reddening  sun, 
Whose  sinking  light  seems  ominous  of  death ; 
Air  now  is  hushed,  and  not  a  whispered  breath, 
Bears  from  the  cedar  woods  one  sound  away 
To  speak  of  life ;  a  lightly  curling  wreath 
O'er  the  far  lake  alone  is  seen  to  play, 
And  give  one  fairy  hue  to  the  departing  day. 


124 


'Tis  the  fit  hour  of  high  and  solemn  thought; 

The  sun  sinks  lower,  and  a  wave  of  flame 

Burns  on  the  distant  peaks ;  I  feel  my  lot 

Too  scanty  for  those  inner  powers,  that  frame 

Visions  of  glory,  which  no  want  should  tame 

To  the  poor  level  of  our  common  days ; 

I  would  be  with  the  heights,  which  stand  the  same, 

Catching  through  countless  years  the  dying  rays, 

That  every  evening  crown  the  rocks  in  one  full  blaze. 

And  here  shall  be  my  temple,  where  I  pay 
Devotion  unto  Nature,  here  the  throne 
On  which  my  soul  shall  sit,  and  pass  away 
Beyond  where  ever  wing  of  air  has  flown, 
Or  first-created  beam  of  morning  shone, 
Through  the  void  infinite,  the  far  expanse, 
Spread  out  beyond  all  life,  by  thought  alone 
Pervaded,  where  no  atoms  in  their  dance,         (chance, 
Ere  sun  and  star  came  forth,  rolled  on  the  waves  of 

To  think  is  to  exist,  and  when  we  go 
Far  in  the  range  of  intellect,  we  seem 
Heightened  in  our  existence :  brute  below 
Move  the  dull  crowd,  a  slow  and  sluggish  stream, 
Who  think  us  madmen,  who  on  mountains  deem 
There  are  more  lofty  musings,  and  new  force 
Caught  from  the  purer  air  and  clearer  beam ; 
They  know  no  upward  hours,  and  as  their  source 
Of  life  is  in  the  dust,  such  is  their  being's  course.. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  125 

They  are  the  pillars  on  which  nations  rest, 

Useful,  but  rude.     All  beauty  took  its  birth 

In  the  rank  mould — now  worshipped  and  caressed, 

It  once  lay  buried  in  its  parent  earth; 

And  thus  the  mean  and  sordid  have  their  worth, 

To  bear  aloft  the  finer  form,  and  rear 

The  prouder  seat  of  soul,  that  sallies  forth 

High  in  a  purer  element,  to  hear 

The  lore  of  minds  who  dwell  in  a  celestial  sphere ; 

Who  have  been  in  the  common  herd,  but  long 

Have  found  a  home  more  genial,  and  have  grown 

From  this  our  infancy  of  reason,  strong 

In  all  that  gives  to  intellect  the  tone 

Of  an  exalted  essence,  such  as  shone 

Faint  in  the  bard  and  sage  of  ancient  days : 

Earth  was  around  them — now,  they  would  not  own 

Those  visions,  where  they  wandered  in  a  maze 

Of  dreams,  that  were  sublime,  and  dazzle  all  who  gaze. 

But  these  were  dreams  of  infancy ;  they  broke 

The  chain  of  earthly  appetite — the  will 

To  be  all  greatness  burst  the  binding  yoke 

That  ever  bore  their  spirit  downward,  till 

They  leaped  on  a  free  pinion  to  fulfil 

The  grandeur  they  had  purposed — then  the  sky 

Received  them  in  its  bosom,  where  they  still 

Haste  on  in  eager  hopes  that  never  die, 

To  read  all  things  that  are,  with  an  unsated  eye. 


126 

Space  is  to  them  an  ocean,  where  they  rush 

Voyaging  in  an  endles  circle ;  light 

Comes  from  within,  and  as  the  mountains  flush, 

When  morning  sails  athwart  them,  so  their  flight 

Kindles  all  things,  they  pass  by,  with  so  bright 

And  searching  glance,  they  read  them  in  their  core: 

Like  a  quick  meteor  hasting  on  in  night, 

They  wander  through  a  sea  without  a  shore, 

Which  still  hath  something  new  to  gather  to  their  store, 

And  they  too  have  a  centre,  where  they  tend; 
The  Universe  rolls  round  it;  there  all  power 
Comes  and  goes  forth ;  though  lesser  beings  end 
Wasting,  and  born,  and  dying  every  hour, 
Yet  like  the  fabled  amaranthine  flower, 
That  ever  held  the  same  unfading  glow. 
Shedding  its  fragrance  through  the  holy  bower, 
Where  angels  took  their  slumbers,  in  a  flow 
That  bore  a  sense  of  Heaven  to  purer  hearts  below : 

Yet  like  that  never  dying  flower,  the  whole 
Lives  one  unchanging  round,  and  ever  draws 
New  motion  from  the  animating  soul, 
Which  acts  on  matter  with  eternal  laws, 
And  is  to  each  event  the  one  first  cause, 
From  which  all  changes  emanate;  like  rays, 
All  spirits  point  to  this,  and  there  they  pause, 
And  when  all  worlds  are  passed,  the  soul  there  lays 
Its  separate  life  aside,  and  mingles  in  that  blaze. 


127 


Here  we  have  only  moments,  when  we  speed 

Round  the  aerial  ocean,  o'er  whose  tides 

The  mind  goes  onward,  like  the  breathless  steed, 

On  which  the  wretch,  who  flies  his  ruin,  rides; 

But  the  base  will  to  earth  forever  guides 

The  soaring  pinion  in  its  highest  flight; 

We  cannot  go  where  the  free  spirit  glides 

Serenely  in  a  flowing  wave  of  light ; 

We  may  be  bright  awhile,  but  more  of  life  is  night. 

3T  is  a  vain  toil  to  send  our  fancy  on, 

In  quest  of  higher  worlds  than  this  we  know; 

Cold  want  will  come,  when  all  we  sought  is  won, 

And  then  our  new-fledged  wing  must  stoop  below; 

I  am  not  to  the  hope  of  Heaven  a  foe, 

It  comforts,  lifts,  and  widens,  all  who  share 

In  the  pure  streams  that  from  its  fountain  flow; 

We  must  be  pure  ourselves,  if  we  would  dare 

Take  of  the  holy  fire  that  wells  and  gushes  there. 

JT  is  a  weak  madness,  or  a  base  deceit, 

To  talk  of  hope  like  this,  when  life  is  stained 

With  all  rank  reeking  grossness  when  we  meet, 

In  a  fair  life,  a  goodness  all  unfeigned, 

Where  one  long  love  of  purity  hath  reigned, 

And  the  meek  spirit  charms  us,  like  the  rose 

That  in  a  thicket  lurks,  and  there  hath  gained 

Sweetness  from  all  it  fed  on,  till  it  throws 

New  fragrance  on  the  wind — we  give  a  Heaven  to  those, 


128 

They  have  a  Heaven  on  earth ;  it  ever  springs 

In  the  calm  round  of  tender  feeling,  shown 

By  the  dear  cares  and  toils  which  Nature  wrings, 

With  a  most  gentle  pressure,  from  the  lone 

But  happy  parent,  who  amid  her  own, 

Smiling  like  first-blown  flowers  around  her,  feeds 

Her  spirit  with  their  looks  of  love ;  unknown 

She  lives  within  her  shrine  5  her  fond  heart  needs 

No  tongue  to  tell  her  worth,  to  gladden  in  her  deeds. 

They  have  their  own  reward:  it  is  the  law 

Of  our  existence,  that  our  hearts  should  cling 

To  those  who  from  our  life  their  being  draw; 

The  favours  that  we  render,  ever  bring 

Closer  the  cherished,  till  they  are  a  thing 

We  cannot  sever  from  us,  but  they  tear 

Roots  from  our  hearts;  the  thankless  child  may  sting, 

Even  as  a  serpent,  but  we  meekly  bear  (there. 

All  wrongs,  and  when  the  storm  beats  on  him,  clasp  him 

The  feeling  of  a  parent  never  dies 
But  with  our  moral  nature;  all  in  vain 
The  wretch,  by  cold  and  cruel  spurning,  tries 
To  change  that  love  to  hate :  the  sense  of  pain 
Shoots  keenly  through  a  mother's  heart,  the  chain 
Wound  through  life's  tender  years  twines  closer  so; 
Feelings,  that  in  our  better  hours  had  lain 
Silent,  *are  often  waked  by  some  deep  throe, 
And  as  the  torture  racks,  our  loves  intenser  grow. 


129 

We  send  these  fond  endearments  o'er  the  grave, 

Heaven  would  be  Hell,  if  loved  ones  were  not  there. 

And  any  spot  a  Heaven,  if  we  could  save 

From  every  stain  of  earth,  and  thither  bear 

The  hearts  that  are  to  us  our  hope  and  care, 

The  soil,  whereon  our  purest  pleasures  grow; 

Around  the  quiet  hearth  we  often  share, 

From  the  quick  change  of  thought,  the  tender  flow 

Of  fondness  waked  by  smiles,  the  world  we  love,  below, 

But  now  I  turn  me  to  the  setting  sun, 

Whose  broad  fire  dips  behind  yon  rock,  a  tower 

Fit  for  the  eagle's  aerie ;  day  is  done, 

And  earth  is  hushed  at  evening's  dewy  hour; 

Down  the  high  wooded  peak  a  golden  shower 

Flows  through  the  twinkling  leaves,  that  lightly  play 

In  the  cool  wind,  that  wakens  from  its  bower 

Hung,  where  the  curling  river  winds  away  (bay; 

Through  the  green  watered  vale,   to  meet  the  sheeted 

On  which  the  moon,  who  long  had  watched  the  set 
Of  the  bright  lord  who  gives  her  light,  but  dims 
Her  brightness,  when  they  two  in  Heaven  are  met, 
Casts  her  pale  shadow,  which  as  softly  swims, 
As  nymphs,  who  cleave  the  wave  with  snowy  limbs, 
Like  lilies  floating  on  a  falling  stream, 
Whose  incense-breathing  cup  now  lightly  skims 
The  crinkling  sheet,  and  now  with  opal  gleam 
Dips  in  the  brook,  and  takes  from  air  a  brighter  beam; 

17 


130 

Which  is  condensed,  and  parted  into  hues 
That  charm  us  in  the  rainbow;  each  waved  tip 
Of  the  glossed  petals,  in  that  light  imbues 
Its  paleness  with  an  iris  fringe;  the  lip 
Thus  takes  a  sweeter  beauty,  when  we  sip 
The  infant  stream  of  life,  from  some  bright  bowl 
Fretted  with  eastern  flowers;  and  as  they  drip 
From  the  new  rose,  the  pearls  of  morning  roll 
Such  tints  upon  the  eye,  they  pass  into  the  soul. 

Sunlight  and  moonlight  now  are  met  in  Heaven; 
This,  like  a  furnace  blazing,  in  the  west 
Lifts  a  wide  flame,  that,  as  a  banner  driven, 
Glows  where  the  mountain  lake  unfolds  its  breast, 
And  every  tree  in  amber  locks  is  tressed, 
Flowing  in  waved  fire  down  the  green  hill-side; 
Round  the  far  eastern  sky  the  blue  is  dressed 
With  blushes,  like  a  sweet  Circassian  bride, 
Who  looks  with  melting  eye  on  Helle's  rolling  tide* 

The  vast  arch  lifts  a  darker  canopy, 

The  perfect  dome  of  nature,  reared  aloft 

Above  the  columned  rocks,  that  send  it  high, 

Like  a  round  temple  roof,  which  rises  soft 

Melting  in  evening  air,  where  sunbeams  waft 

Flashes,  that  tip  with  gold  the  pointed  spire, 

And  crown  the  statue  there,  and  gem  the  haft 

Of  the  bent  sword,  that,  like  a  stream  of  fire, 

Waves  o'er  the  startled  crowd,  the  sign  of  God's  first  ire. 


131 


But  as  I  turn  me  to  the  silent  sea, 

Where  not  a  wind  is  breathing,  no  calm  swell 

Creeps  slowly  whispering  on ;  where  in  his  lee, 

Through  the  far  deep,  the  sailor-boy  can  tell, 

On  the  white  bed  of  sand,  each  twisted  shell, 

That  lies,  where  never  waves  in  tempest  sweep ; — 

I  look,  and  as  I  hear  the  vesper  })ell 

Swing  solemnly  afar,  the  moon  beams  keep 

Watch  o'er  the  silver  tide,  that  now  is  hushed  in  sleep. 

Day  fades,  and  night  grows  brighter  in  her  orb, 

Which  walks  the  blue  air  with  a  queen-like  smile, 

And  seems  with  a  soft  gladness  to  absorb 

All  the  deep  blaze,  that  lit  yon  rocky  pile, 

Where  the  sun  took  his  farewell  glance,  the  while 

He  rested  on  the  throne  of  parting  day, 

Which  is  his  royal  seat; — as  a  far  isle 

Rolling  amid  the  upper  deep  its  way, 

The  moon  glides  on,  as  glides  her  shadow  on  the  bay. 

Beauty  is  doubled  here,  and  both  are  fair, 

But  the  reflection  hath  a  paler  tint, 

As  when  from  out  a  calm  and  hazy  air 

The  first  wan  rays  in  frosted  autumn  glint; 

The  moon  aloft  comes  freshly  from  the  mint, 

Where  first  she  took  her  loveliness;  the  bright 

And  dark  she  bears,  like  bosses,  by  the  dint 

Of  a  deep  die,  give  changes  to  her  light, 

As  if  a  snowy  veil  with  glittering  pearls  were  dight. 


Night  steals  apace,  and  brings  the  hour  of  stars, 

Which  come  emerging  from  Heaven's  azure  flow; 

First  in  the  west  the  loving  planet  bears 

The  charm  of  light,  that  hath  a  power  to  throw 

Hope  on  the  impassioned  heart,  who  in  her  glow 

Reads  the  fond  omen  of  his  happy  flame ; 

She  leads  the  way;  then  thicker  splendours  go, 

Each  to  his  seat,  as  when  at  once  they  came 

Obedient  to  the  voice,  whose  word  all  power  can  tame. 

And  now  the  night  is  full;  unnumbered  eyes 

Look  on  us  from  infinitude;  the  dome, 

Whereon  they  hang,  in  darker  azure  lies 

Round  their  intenser  light;  as  when  the  foam 

Crests  the  green  wave,  when  barks  are  hurrying  home 

From  the  wild  cloud,  that  skirts  the  brooding  sky, 

And  gives  the  sea  a  frown,  before  it  come 

To  plow  the  surge  in  wrath,  and  roll  it  by 

The  rock,  which  in  that  rush  still  lifts  its  forehead  high, 

They  gather  on  the  far  expanded  arch, 

Each  in  their  separate  orders,  arid  go  on 

Sweeping  the  long  dark  vault  in  silent  march, 

Until  at  last  the  western  goal  is  won, 

Or  on  the  orient  hill  the  morning  sun 

Come  forth  and  quench  their  lesser  light;  yon  plain 

Is  a  wide  list,  where  higher  souls  may  run 

In  the  bright  form  of  star,  and  grandly  gain 

The  only  good  reward,  which  here  we  seek  in  vain. 


133 

No  wonder  nations  worshipped  here,  and  bowed 
Their  foreheads  in  the  dust  before  the  fires 
That  watch  o'er  earth,  and  seem  to  speak  aloud 
The  deeds  of  unborn  ages ; — man  aspires 
To  the  high  seat  of  gods,  and  never  tires 
To  read  the  infinite,  the  past,  and  throw 
Looks  full  of  hope  before  him ;  so  those  fires, 
Which  are  so  high,  and  look  so  far,  must  know 
All  that  is  big  with  fate,  and  will  have  birth  below. 

Faith  centres  in  the  sky ; — 't  is  there  we  turn, 

When  earth  is  only  darkness,  there  we  send 

Our  vows  to  those  we  fear,  and  there  we  burn, 

When  the  last  pulse  beats  low,  to  find  the  end 

Of  all  we  hate,  and  thus  in  hope  we  tend 

To  the  high  dwelling  of  the  stars ; — bright  souls 

Love  with  the  purer  elements  to  blend, 

And  so,  when  the  deep  knell  its  parting  tolls, 

They  gaze  on  the  pure  light  that  ever  round  us  rolls : 

So  those,  who  have  been  gifted  with  the  flame 

Of  an  ascending  intellect,  whose  light 

Kindled  as  death  drew  near,  and  seemed  the  same, 

Or  fairer  on  the  verge  of  being's  night; — 

So  they  have  fixed  their  last  look  on  the  bright 

Clear  sky,  as  if  awhile  insphered  and  bound 

In  a  full  sense  of  glory ; — their  delight 

Was  too  intensely  keen  to  have  a  sound; 

It  spake  in  the  long  smile  they  cast  so  calmly  round. 


134  PERCIVAJL'S  POEMS. 

The  sun  was  setting  when  the  Guebre  drew 
His  parting  breath ;  he  gazed  in  worship  there. 
Life  seemed  concentred  in  that  ardent  view, 
His  spirit  wandered  into  worlds  of  air, 
To  mingle  with  his  god,  and  dying  share 
In  the  last  flash  of  day; — the  cold  dim  glaze 
Fell  on  his  eye,  but  yet  he  oft  would  bear 
A  fond  look  to  the  cloud,  that  drank  the  rays, 
And  then  he  calmty  died,  as  one  who  only  pays 

(Devotion  on  his  pillow,  ere  he  draw 
His  curtain  round,  and  close  his  eye  in  sleep: 
That  fond  idolater  in  dying  saw, 
As  the  day  sank  in  glory  in  the  deep, 
That  rolled  in  gilt  waves  o'er  it  with  the  sweep 
Of  a  far-flashing  brightness,  there  his  eye 
Beheld  his  god  enshrined ; — his  soul  could  leap, 
At  such  a  calm  and  holy  hour,  to  lie 
Serenely  on  his  couch,  and  with  his  loved  lord  die. 

Centre  of  light  and  energy !  thy  way 

Is  through  the  unknown  void;  thou  has  thy  throne? 

Morning,  and  evening,  and  at  noon  of  day, 

Far  in  the  blue,  untended  and  alone; 

Ere  the  first-wakened  airs  of  earth  had  blown, 

On  thou  didst  march,  triumphant  in  thy  light; 

Then  thou  didst  send  thy  glance,  which  still  hath  flown 

Wide  through  the  never-ending  worlds  of  night, 

And  yet  thy  full  orb  burns  with  flash  as  keen  and  bright. 


135 


We  call  thee  Lord  of  day — and  thou  dost  give 
To  Earth  the  fire  that  animates  her  crust, 
And  wakens  all  the  forms  that  move  and  live. 
From  the  fine  viewless  mould,  which  lurks  in  dust, 
To  him  who  looks  to  Heaven,  and  on  his  bust 
Bears  stamped  the  seal  of  God,  who  gathers  there 
Lines  of  deep  thought,  high  feeling,  daring  trust 
In  his  own  centred  powers,  who  aims  to  share 
In  all  his  soul  can  frame  of  wide,  and  great,  and  fair. 

Thy  path  is  high  in  Heaven; — we  cannot  gaze 

On  the  intense  of  light  that  girds  thy  car ; 

There  is  a  crown  of  glory  in  thy  rays, 

Which  bear,  thy  pure  divinity  afar, 

To  mingle  with  the  equal  light  of  star, 

For  thou,  so  vast  to  us,  art  in  the  whole 

One  of  the  sparks  of  night,  that  fire  the  air, 

And  as  around  thy  centre  planets  roll, 

So  thou  too  hast  thy  path  around  the  central  souL 

I  am  no  fond  idolater  to  thee, 

One  of  the  countless  multitude,  who  burn, 

As  lamps,  around  the  one  Eternity, 

In  whose  contending  forces  systems  turn 

Their  circles  round  that  seat  of  life,  the  urn 

Where  all  must  sleep,  if  matter  ever  dies : — 

Sight  fails  me  here,  but  fancy  can  discern 

With  the  wide  glance  of  her  all-seeing  eyes, 

Where,  in  the  heart  of  worlds,  the  ruling  Spirit  lies. 


136 


PERCIVAL  S    POEMS. 


And  thon  too  hast  thy  world,  and  unto  thee 

We  are  as  nothing; — thou  goest  forth  alone, 

And  movest  through  the  wide  aerial  sea, 

Glad  as  a  conqueror  resting  on  his  throne 

From  a  new  victory,  where  he  late  had  shown 

Wider  his  power  to  nations; — so  thy  light 

Comes  with  new  pomp,  as  if  thy  strength  had  grown 

With  each  revolving  day,  or  thou  at  night 

Had  lit  again  thy  fires,  and  thus  renewed  thy  might. 

Age  o'er  thee  has  no  power ; — thou  bringst  the  same 
Light  to  renew  the  morning,  as  when  first, 
If  not  eternal,  thou,  with  front  of  flame, 
On  the  dark  face  of  earth  in  glory  burst, 
And  warmed  the  seas,  and  in  their  bosom  nursed 
The  earliest  things  of  life,  the  worm  arid  shell ; 
Till  through  the  sinking  ocean  mountains  pierced, 
And  then  came  forth  the  land  whereon  we  dwell, 
Reared  like  a  magic  fane  above  the  watery  swell. 

And  there  thy  searching  heat  awoke  the  seeds 

Of  all  that  gives  a  charm  to  earth,  and  lends 

An  energy  to  nature ;  all  that  feeds 

On  the  rich  mould,  and  then  in  bearing  bends 

Its  fruit  again  to  earth,  wherein  it  blends 

The  last  and  first  of  life ;  of  all  who  bear 

Their  forms  in  motion,  where  the  spirit  tends 

Instinctive,  in  their  common  good  to  share,         (there. 

Which  lies  in  things  that  breathe,  or  late  were  living 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  137 

They  live  in  thee;  without  thee  all  were  dead 
And  dark,  no  beam  had  lighted  on  the  waste, 
But  one  eternal  night  around  had  spread 
Funereal  gloom,  and  coldly  thus  defaced 
This  Eden,  which  thy  fairy  hand  had  graced 
With  such  uncounted  beauty — all  that  blows 
In  the  fresh  air  of  Spring,  and  growing  braced 
Its  form  to  manhood,  when  it  stands  and  glows 
In  the  full-tempered  beam,  that  gladdens  as  it  goes. 

Thou  lookest  on  the  Earth,  and  then  it  smiles; 

Thy  light  is  hid,  and  all  things  droop  and  mourn; 

Laughs  the  wide  sea  around  her  budding  isles, 

When  through  their  heaven  thy  changing  car  is  borne; 

Thou  wheelst  away  thy  flight,  the  woods  are  shorn 

Of  all  their  waving  locks,  and  storms  awake; 

All,  that  was  once  so  beautiful,  is  torn 

By  the  wild  winds  which  plough  the  lonely  lake, 

And  in  their  maddening  rush  the  crested  mountains  shake. 

The  Earth  lies  buried  in  a  shroud  of  snow; 
Life  lingers,  and  would  die,  but  thy  return 
Gives  to  their  gladdened  hearts  an  overflow 
Of  all  the  power,  that  brooded  in  the  urn 
Of  their  chilled  frames,  and  then  they  proudly  spurn 
All  bands  that  would  confine,  and  give  to  air 
Hues,  fragrance,  shapes  of  beauty,  till  they  burn, 
When  on  a  dewy  morn  thou  dartest  there 
Rich  waves  of  gold  to  wreath  with  fairer  light  the  fair. 

18 


0 


138 

The  vales  are  thine  5  and  when  the  touch  of  Spring 

Thrills  them,  and  gives  them  gladness,  in  thy  light 

They  glitter,  as  the  glancing  swallow's  wing 

Dashes  the  water  in  his  winding  flight, 

And  leaves  behind  a  wave,  that  crinkles  bright, 

And  widens  outward  to  the  pebbled  shore — 

The  vales  are  thine,  and  when  they  wake  from  night. 

The  dews,  that  bend  the  grass  tips,  twinkling  o'er 

Their  soft  and  oozy  beds,  look  upward  and  adore. 

The  hills  are  thine — they  catch  thy  newest  beam. 

And  gladden  in  thy  parting,  where  the  wood 

Flames  out  in  every  leaf,  and  drinks  the  stream 

That  flows  from  out  thy  fulness,  as  a  flood 

Bursts  from  an  unknown  land,  and  rolls  the  food 

Of  nations  in  its  waters — so  thy  rays 

Flow  and  give  brighter  tints,  than  ever  bud, 

When  a  clear  sheet  of  ice  reflects  a  blaze 

Of  many  twinkling  gems,  as  every  glossed  bough  plays. 

Thine  are  the  mountains,  where  they  purely  lift 

Snows  that  have  never  wasted,  in  a  sky 

Which  hath  no  stain;  below  the  storm  may  drift 

Its  darkness,  and  the  thunder-gust  roar  by, 

Aloft  in  thy  eternal  smile  they  lie 

Dazzling  but  cold ;  thy  farewell  glance  looks  there, 

And  when  below  thy  hues  of  beauty  die 

Girt  round  them  as  a  rosy  belt,  they  bear 

Jnto  the  high  dark  vault  a  brow  that  still  is  fair. 


,» 


?  S  '"  POEMS . 

The  clouds  are  thine,  and  all  their  magic  hues 
Are  penciled  by  thee;  when  thou  bendest  low, 
Or  comest  in  thy  strength,  thy  hand  imbues 
Their  waving  fold  with  such  a  perfect  glow 
Of  all  pure  tints,  the  fairy  pictures  throw 
Shame  on  the  proudest  art;  the  tender  stain 
Hung  round  the  verge  of  Heaven,  that  as  a  bow 
Girds  the  wide  world,  and  in  their  blended  chain 
All  tints  to  the  deep  gold,  that  flashes  in  thy  train; 

These  are  thy  trophies,  and  thou  bendst  thy  arch, 

The  sign  of  triumph,  in  a  seven-fold  twine, 

Where  the  spent  storm  is  hasting  on  its  march; 

And  there  the  glories  of  thy  light  combine, 

And  form  with  perfect  curve  a  lifted  line, 

Striding  the  earth  and  air; — man  looks  and  tells 

How  Peace  and  Mercy  in  its  beauty  shine, 

And  how  the  heavenly  messenger  impels 

Her  glad  wings  on  the  path,  that  thus  in  ether  swells. 

The  ocean  is  thy  vassal;  thou  dost  sway 

His  waves  to  thy  dominion,  and  they  go, 

Where  thou  in  Heaven  dost  guide  them  on  their  way, 

Rising  and  falling  in  eternal  flow; 

Thou  lookest  on  the  waters,  and  they  glow, 

They  take  them  wings  and  spring  aloft  in  air, 

And  change  to  clouds,  and  then,  dissolving,  throw 

Their  treasures  back  to  earth,  and,  rushing,  tear 

The  mountain  and  the  vale,  as  proudly  on  they  bear. 


140  PERCIVAL' 

I  too  have  been  upon  thy  rolling  breast, 

Widest  of  waters !  I  have  seen  thee  lie 

Calm,  as  an  infant  pillowed  in  its  rest 

On  a  fond  mother's  bosom,  when  the  sky, 

Not  smoother,  gave  the  deep  its  azure  die, 

Till  a  new  Heaven  was  arched  and  glassed  below. 

And  then  the  clouds,  that  gay  in  sunset  fly, 

Cast  on  it  such  a  stain,  it  kindled  so, 

As  in  the  cheek  of  youth  the  living  roses  grow. 

I  too  have  seen  thee  on  thy  surging  path, 

When  the  night  tempest  met  thee ;  thou  didst  dash 

Thy  white  arms  high  in  Heaven,  as  if  in  wrath 

Threatening  the  angry  sky;  thy  waves  did  lash 

The  labouring  vessel,  and  with  deadening  crash 

Rush  madly  forth  to  scourge  its  groaning  sides; 

Onward  thy  billows  came  to  meet  and  clash 

In  a  wild  warfare,  till  the  lifted  tides  (rides. 

Mingled  their  yesty  tops,  where  the  dark  storm-cloud 

In  thee,  first  light,  the  bounding  ocean  smiles, 

When  the  quick  winds  uprear  it  in  a  swell, 

That  rolls  in  glittering  green  around  the  isles, 

Where  ever-springing  fruits  and  blossoms  dwell; 

O !  with  a  joy  no  gifted  tongue  can  tell, 

I  hurry  o'er  the  waters,  when  the  sail 

Swells  tensely,  and  the  light  keel  glances  well 

Over  the  curling  billow,  and  the  gale 

Comes  off  from  spicy  groves  to  tell  its  winning  tale. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  141 

The  soul  is  thine ;  of  old  thou  wert  the  Power 

Who  gave  the  Poet  life,  and  I  in  thee 

Feel  my  heart  gladden,  at  the  holy  hour. 

When  thou  art  sinking  in  the  silent  sea ; 

Or  when  I  climb  the  height,  and  wander  free 

In  thy  meridian  glory,  for  the  air 

Sparkles  and  burns  in  thy  intensity; 

I  feel  thy  light  within  me,  and  I  share 

In  the  full  glow  of  soul  thy  spirit  kindles  there. 

All  have  their  moments,  when  the  world  looks  dark 
Behind,  around,  before  them:  Some  have  steeled 
Their  hearts  to  hope,  and  put  out  every  spark 
Faith  lends  the  future — minds,  who  will  not  yield 
To  aught  but  sense,  who  lurk  beneath  a  shield 
That  bears  unshocked  the  rudest  brunt  of  fate  ; 
They  boast  of  their  fixed  hardness — they  have  healed 
All  the  heart's  wounds  by  searing — love  and  hate 
Have  died  alike — unmoved  they  sit,  and  sternly  wait 

Death,  which  hath  lost  all  terrors,  in  the  cold 

Stifling  of  every  passion  and  desire ; 

'T  is  the  same  sound,  whether  the  bell  has  tolled, 

Or  the  flute  warbled  out  the  lover's  fire; 

They  laugh  at  Heaven  and  all  who  there  aspire, 

Who  lowly  crouch  and  bend  to  fear,  they  mock ; 

They  strive,  while  they  have  vigour;  when  they  tire 

They  sit  and  muse,  like  Marius  on  a  rock, 

And  thus  in  calm  deep  thought  the  Book  of  Life  unlock : 


"  It  came,  is  gone,  whence,  whither,  none  can  know: 

Darkness  behind,  as  deep  a  gloom  before : 

Wave  after  wave  our  generations  go 

Rolling  to  break  upon  an  unknown  shore; 

Awhile  we  toss  and  sparkle,  then  no  more 

The  eye  beholds  our  being,  we  are  fled, 

And  they  who  moved  alone,  and  they  who  bore 

Navies  and  convoys,  soon,  as  quickly  sped, 

Have  vanished  in  the  waste  dark  vacuum  of  the  dead. 

"  Graves  tell  no  tales,  but  silence  dread  and  deep 

Broods  over  them  forever ;  one  long  night 

Wraps  all  that  enter  their  domain  in  sleep, 

On  which  no  day  hath  ever  poured  its  light  j 

But  Time,  as  it  advances,  still  doth  write 

Eternity  above  their  dark  repose; 

Ages  have  wheeled  away  in  silent  flight, 

Man  ever  to  his  long  oblivion  goes ; 

What  if  he  hath  new  life?  Who  hath  it  only  knows. 

"  We  stand  the  centre  of  Eternity, 

Infinity  around  us ;  but  we  cling 

To  the  few  sands  of  life,  that  soon  will  be 

Lost  in  the  common  mass,  when  Death  shall  fling 

His  clay-cold  hand  athwart  us,  and  shall  wring 

The  spirit  from  our  forms ;  then  dust  to  dust 

Shall  meanly  moulder;  we  shall  be  a  thing 

For  worms  to  feast  on;  do  we  rightly  trust, 

We  shall  be  then  all  mind,  or  is  it  a  vain  lust? 


143 

4i  So  Man  has  questioned,  since  his  being  came 

Forth  from  the  womb  of  Nature ;  he  has  found 

This  dull  life  for  his  inner  powers  too  tame, 

And  therefore  he  hath  cast  his  view  around, 

And  wandered  far  away,  beyond  the  bound 

Of  the  seen  universe,  to  find  a  home 

For  his  high  soul  to  dwell  in;  though  the  ground 

Receive  the  wasted  corpse,  yet  he  may  roam, 

On  a  swift  airy  wing,  beneath  Heaven's  proudest  dome. 

"  There  is  a  lifting  grandeur  in  the  thought ; 
3T  is  the  extreme  of  ecstacy  to  rear 
Our  now  base  life  above  its  sordid  lot, 
And  kindle  in  a  holy  happy  sphere, 
Where  all  that  is  of  intellect  is  near, 
And  all  pure  feeling  finds  eternal  food  .* 
No  wonder  better  souls  have  rested  here 
Intensely,  as  the  sparrow  guards  her  brood; 
And  it  attracts  the  more,  the  more  it  is  pursued, 

"  They  live  in  holy  musing — mind  is  drawn 
From  all  external  being — calm  repose 
In  the  one  chiefest  essence,  as  the  dawn 
Sleeps  on  the  silent  valley,  when  the  rose 
Drips  with  its  seeded  dew,  that  slowly  flows 
From  the  still  leaves,  all  are  so  hushed  and  calm, 
When  the  blue  flowers  of  day  their  leaves  unclose, 
And  wake  their  azure  eyes,  and  breathe  their  balm. 
And  the  green  linnet  sucks  the  honey  of  the  Palm, 


i 


144 

"  Whose  broad  leaves  hang  unruffled  by  the  sway 

Of  the  cool  air,  that  from  the  ocean  steals 

With  breath  so  faint,  that  scarce  the  silk-tufts  play 

Round  the  green  cane,  when  the  night  beauty  seals 

Her  golden  eye  in  slumber,  but  reveals 

In  tender  lines  of  light  the  fringed  lid; 

When  all  that  hath  a  life,  in  silence  feels 

The  moving  of  that  Power,  whose  ways  are  hid 

Deep  in  the  core  of  things,  unresting,  and  amid 

"  Myriads  of  viewless  instruments,  the  springs 

By  which  the  eternal  round  of  life  goes  on, 

Whose  sleep  is  in  the  tomb,  when  spirit  flings 

Its  faded  slough  aside,  again  to  run 

In  a  fresh-glowing  spoil,  that  gives  the  sun 

Its  light  in  burnished  beauty.     Do  we  fly, 

Thus  parted,  Earth  forever?  or  does  one 

Take  from  another  life,  wherewith  to  ply 

Awhile  on  gladdened  wings,  and  then  grow  old  and  die  ? 

"  Nature  is  one  eternal  circle :  Life 

Floats  through  the  void,  and  is  attracted,  where 

The  elements,  in  their  collected  strife, 

From  Chaos  raise  a  world  in  order  fair, 

To  float  through  space,  and  on  its  bosom  bear 

Forms,  that  are  fashioned  with  unnumbered  wheels 

To  walk,  or  swim,  or  on  the  buoyant  air, 

Float  in  the  calm  of  motion — Life  there  steals, 

And  finds  its  home  prepared  5  it  enters,  Matter  feels,- 


145 


"  And  all  awakes  to  energy,  the  blood 

Courses  the  winding  arteries,  which  convey 

Spirit  and  heat  in  its  air-kindled  flood, 

And  send  to  all,  the  atoms  which  array 

The  form  in  rounded  beauty,  and  their  play 

Paints  on  the  new-born  cheek  the  one  full  rose, 

Which  is  the  flower  of  love;  we  all  obey, 

Unoheated  of  our  due,  this  charm,  that  glows, 

And  then  turns  sweetly  pale,  as  passion  ebbs  and  flows. 

"  Above  the  temple,  where  the  Godhead  sits, 

Reason,  the  Deity  and  guide  of  man, 

In  the  most  lofty  seat,  as  well  befits 

The  Power,  whose  sacred  office  is  to  span 

All  that  is  working  round  us,  or  that  can 

Meet  us  to  please,  to  harm  us,  or  destroy; 

Who  hath  his  band  of  feelings,  who  may  scan 

All  that  would  seek  an  entrance;  who,  as  joy   (annoy. 

Draws,  or  pain  frights,  seeks,  shuns,  what  charm  us  or 

"  There  sits  the  Power  upon  his  higher  throne, 
In  a  fair  palace  wrought,  when  life  at  first 
In  the  grand  form,  where  ^ind  alone  is  shown. 
The  elements  of  thought  and  feeling  nurst 
From  the  blank  infant  state,  till  Genius  burst 
All  earthly  barriers,  and  aspired  to  Heaven — 
He  sought  to  grasp  its  fire,  and  he  was  curst 
By  his  own  daring;  now  by  fancy  driven, 
The  victim  of  belief,  he  finds  a  longing  given 

19 


146 

"  To  dwell  with  angels,  and  to  fashion  dreams 

Of  glory,  goodness,  perfect  mind,  pure  love, 

Consummate  beauty,  in  whose  gladdening  beams 

We  seem  exalted  to  a  sense  above 

The  common  life,  that  chills  us;  but  we  prove. 

In  all  this  ecstacy,  the  torturing  fire 

Of  a  keen  thirst,  whose  fountain  doth  remove 

Farther,  the  more  we  seek  it — such  desire  (drier. 

Burns  the  lost  wretch,  who  finds,  each  step,  the  desert 

"  Man,  in  the  temperate  use  of  all  his  powers, 
Is  happy:  with  the  simple  fruit  and  stream, 
Labour  and  rest  in  their  alternate  hours, 
His  life  is  golden,  as  fond  poets  dream 
Of  the  first  age,  the  Paradise,  the  theme, 
Where  the  rapt  spirit  gladdens,  and  runs  wild 
Through  citron  shades,  whose  fruitage  woos  the  bean- 
To  harden  in  its  rind,  through  all  that  smiled 
In  the  Elysian  isles,  where  air  was  ever  mild, 

"  Brushing  the  light  leaves  on  its  jocund  way, 

Borne  from  the  breast  of  ocean  without  cloud, 

Save  such  light  streaks,  as  give  the  setting  day 

Its  gilded  glory,  where  the  year  was  bowed 

With  an  eternal  harvest,  in  whose  shroud 

Earth  seemed  a  Heaven  for  Gods,  not  home  for  men; 

They  dreamed  of  all  these  phantoms,  and  were  proud 

Of  their  creations,  but  cold  winter  then 

Shut  them  to  gnaw  their  hearts,  and  grovel  in  their  den. 


147 

"  Rapture  is  not  the  aim  of  Man;  in  flowers 

The  serpent  hides  his  venom,  and  the  sting 

Of  the  dread  insect  lurks  in  fairest  bowers  : 

We  were  not  made  to  wander  on  the  wing, 

But  if  we  would  be  happy,  we  must  bring 

Our  buoyed  hearts  to  a  plain  and  simple  school ; 

We  may,  as  the  wild-vines  their  tendrils  fling, 

And  waste  their  barren  life,  o'erleap  all  rule, 

And  grasp  all  light,  till  age  our  fruitless  ardour  cool. 

"  We  would  be  Gods,  and  we  would  know  all  things, 

And  therefore  we  know  nothing  well ;  our  thought 

Would  lift  itself  upon  an  eagle's  wings, 

And  speed  through  all  that  Deity  hath  wrought 

And  fashioned  by  his  fiat,  until  nought 

Should  be  untravelled  ;  but  the  aspiring  flame 

Consumes  the  active  mind,  and  all  it  sought 

Becomes  its  torment,  for  the  breath  of  fame, 

Like  a  Sirocco's  blast,  will  sear  and  scorch  our  frame. 

"  We  seek  the  fountain-head,  whence  Genius  flowed 

Pure  from  the  breast  of  Nature,  where  her  stream 

Was  sparkling  as  the  crystal,  and  it  showed 

The  bright  reflection  of  the  solar  beam, 

Which  from  the  Sun  of  mind,  the  high  supreme 

Of  moral  grace  and  beauty,  and  the  throne 

Of  majesty  unbounded,  took  its  theme, 

And  in  the  Muse's  morning  splendour  shone,       (cone : 

As  in  the  dawn  of  light  some  snow-capped  mountain's 


148 

"  And  we  go  down  the  stream  of  ages,  borne 
Through  cultured  fields  and  deserts,  and  we  tak.e 
All  that  is  poured  from  Plenty's  brimming  horn 
Of  mind's  collected  treasures ;  there  we  slake 
Our  growing  thirst,  and  thus  by  quenching  make 
Burning  and  wasting  our  intense  desire ; 
We  gather  burdens,  till  our  spirits  ache 
Beneath  the  weight  of  our  attainments ;  higher,    (pire : 
Even  on  the  grave's  close  brink,  our  mounting  souls  as- 

"  And  then  Death  comes,  which  we  have  hurried  011^ 
By  our  own  longing  to  escape  it;  still 
Hope  points  the  temple  we  had  almost  won, 
Its  Doric  columns  crown  the  lifted  hill, 
And  the  departed  great  its  porches  fill, 
And  all  the  springs  of  Truth  at  last  unlock  ; 
Onward  we  leap  to  join  them,  with  a  will 
That  dies  in  effort — so  from  the  doomed  rock 
Prometheus  saw  the  sea  roll  near,  his  torture's  mock. 

"  We  are  the  slaves  of  Nature — Sun  and  cloud 
Brighten  and  darken — -cold  and  heat  compel 
The  spirit  to  their  rule ;  we  may  be  proud 
That  we  are  Lords  of  Earth,  and  greatly  tell 
How  elements,  obedient  to  the  spell 
Of  our  high  reason,  follow  where  we  go  : 
'T  is  a  vain  pride ;  for  Glory's  upward  swell, 
Lifting  its  tides,  like  Oteans  in  their  flow, 
Finds  in  the  meanest  check  full  oft  its  overthrow. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS  149 

"  A  breath  may  quell  the  tempest  of  a  soul, 
Whose  gusts  blow  o'er  a  continent,  and  pour 
Madness  through  nations ;  who,  as  wild  seas  roll, 
When  wind  and  earthquake  dash  them  on  the  shore, 
To  bury  thousands  in  their  rush  and  roar, 
Where  ages  had  been  calm  and  happy,  send 
One  host  to  sweep  a  feebler  host  before 
Its  brute  and  causeless  rage — that  life  may  end 
By  the  dark  stagnant  air,  whose  poison  doth  defend 

"  With  a  securer  bulwark,  than  the  rock 

Crowned  with  its  iron  jaws  of  death,  which  speak 

Defiance  to  the  invading  wave,  and  mock 

All,  who,  in  their  insatiate  longing,  seek 

Wider  and  richer  regions,  where  to  wreak 

The  lust  of  a  false  greatness :  in  his  snows 

The  Switzer  finds  his  safeguard;  winds  are  bleak, 

And  earth  is  barren,  but  his  bosom  shows 

How  hard  and  firmly  nerved  to  bear  and  to  oppose : 

"  And  in  his  damp  close  woods  the  Carib  dwells 
Free,  for  the  pestilence  forever  spreads 
Its  purple  folds  around  him,  till  it  swells 
Dire  as  a  Hydra  with  its  hundred  heads; 
Where  snakes  and  reptiles  batten  in  their  beds, 
And  round  the  boughs  their  bloated  circles  twine; 
Where  the  dull  air  its  fatal  influence  sheds 
In  one  eternal  mist — no  pure  beams  shine, 
But  all  that  sleeps  below  is  rayless  as  the  mine. 


150 

"  Man  would  be  free,  but  is  his  own  worst  slave; 

His  tyrant  is  his  appetite;  he  lives 

Calmly  in  bondage,  if  he  thus  can  save 

The  lust  he  long  hath  cherished ;  then  he  gives 

His  birthright  to  the  pander,  and  believes 

He  hath  his  surest  safety  in  that  power; 

He  rests  in  quiet  sloth ;  he  never  grieves 

For  the  high  glories  of  that  ancient  hour,  (dower. 

When  liberty  sprang  forth,  and  fiercely  claimed  her 

"  Base  passions  are  our  lords;  and  thus  we  bend 

So  silently  to  those,  who  let  us  feed 

On  the  rank  garbage  of  low  joys;  we  send 

Rarely,  if  ever,  to  the  hopes  that  breed 

Strength  in  the  heart,  and  give  the  mind  the  speed 

Of  a  young  courser,  on  its  upward  way ; 

The  strong  and  lofty  love  the  daring  deed — 

Free  in  their  own  wide  circuit,  they  obey  (prey. 

No  power  but  their  own  might — the  weak  too  are  their 

"  Weakness  is  vice :  man  first  was  bold  and  strong, 

Prompt  to  repel  all  force,  to  spurn  all  rule ; 

He  felt  his  wants,  he  knew  his  rights;  that  throng 

Of  prurient,  pampered  appetites,  which  fool 

The  soul  of  its  true  being,  in  the  school 

Of  reeking  cities  taught,  he  had  not  known ; 

And  therefore  he  was  not  the  flatterer's  tool, 

Who  gives  the  cup  of  Circe,  but  alone 

He  walked  erect,  a  god,  and  made  the  earth  his  own. 


151 


u  We  tell  of  meekness — 't  is  the  very  curse 

Of  our  degraded  nature ;  we  are  driven 

Close  in  a  crowd,  where  all  mean  feelings  nurse 

Their  blackness,  and  the  feebler  thus  in  Heaven, 

Look  for  the  help  that  here  they  find  not  given, 

And  patiently  submit  to  those  who  crush  \ 

Fetters  so  galling  had  been  sternly  riven 

By  the  first  upward  race;  they  would  not  hush 

Wild  nature  in  their  hearts,  but  spend  it  in  the  rush 

"  Of  a  determined  will;  though  now  firm  laws 

Rear  iron  walls  to  hem  us  darkly  in, 

We  can  be  just,  and  ever  in  the  cause 

Of  the  first  liberty  speak  in  the  din 

Of  prating  slaves,  who  strive,  and  only  win 

New  shackles  by  their  toil;  the  few  will  hate 

The  tyrant,  and  be  nobly  free  within; 

They  live  in  their  own  world ;  the  mean  will  wait 

Fawning  around  a  lord — such  is  the  doom  of  fate. 

"  It  is  our  pride  to  conquer  Nature : — Mind 

Is  an  internal  force,  that  oft  can  sway 

Things  to  its  great  dominion ;  't  is  designed 

As  the  one  balance,  which  at  least  can  stay 

Awhile  the  haste  of  causes,  which  convey 

All  in  their  downward  flood,  to  where  they  mix 

Again  in  that  great  furnace,  wrhere  the  play 

Of  first  attractions  ever  will  unfix 

The  binding  links  of  life,  and  send  us  o'er  the  Styx, 


152  PEBCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

"  To  wander  through  ten  thousand  changes,  where 

All  first  is  gross  and  hateful,  till  we  rise 

From  the  rank  putrid  heap,  to  spread  in  air 

New  forms,  that  veil  at  first  their  energies; 

But  as  the  tireless  wing  of  Being  flies, 

Hasting  forever  onward,  they  grow  pure, 

And  spread  new  beauty  to  the  admiring  eyes 

Of  the  pleased  Earth,  and  silently  allure 

To  taste  their  fleeting  charms,  too  lovely  to  endure. 

"  Why  was  the  sense  of  Beauty  lent  to  Man, 
The  feeling  of  fine  forms,  the  taste  of  soul, 
That  speaks  from  eye  and  lip,  and  thus  will  fan 
Love  in  the  young  beholder?  Why  the  whole 
Waste  of  creation  sweetly  can  control 
The  fixed  heart  to  devotion?  Why  hath  Night 
So  many  golden  eyes?  Why  is  the  roll 
Of  Nature  so  accordant,  when  a  blight 
Withers  our  very  lives,  and  poisons  all  delight? 

"  Why  are  we  not  like  Nature,  ever  new, 

Freshening  with  every  season  ?  It  is  pain 

To  gaze,  when  sick  and  wasted,  on  the  blue 

Arching  as  purely  o'er  us,  and  the  stain 

Of  the  curled  clouds,  that  gather  in  the  train, 

Which  the  low  Sun  makes  glorious  with  his  smile: 

To  see  the  light  Spring  weave  her  rosy  chain, 

And  sow  her  pearls,  no  longer  can  beguile, 

When  age,  and  want,  and  sin,  our  sinking  hearts  defile. 


15S 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

"  Youth  is  the  season,  when  we  must  enjoy, 
If  we  would  know  the  sweets  of  life ;  the  mind 
Is  then  pure  feeling,  for  no  base  alloy 
Of  gain  hath  blended  with  the  ore  refined 
By  the  wise  hand  of  Nature,  who  designed 
The  beautiful  years  to  be  alone  the  time, 
When  we  can  fondly  love,  and  loving  find 
In  the  adored  the  same  glad  passion  chime, 
As  if  two  spirits  met  in  one  most  tuneful  rhyme. 

"  O !  there  are  eyes  that  have  a  language — sweet 

Comes  their  soft  music  round  us,  till  the  air 

Is  one  intensest  melody — we  beat 

Through  every  pulse,  as  if  a  spring  were  there 

To  buoy  us  into  upper  worlds,  and  bear 

Our  fond  hearts  with  linked  arms,  on  whitest  wings, 

To  a  far  island,  where  we  two  may  share 

Eternal  looks,  such  as  the  live  eye  flings, 

When  it  collects  all  fire,  and  as  it  blesses,  stings. 

"  O !  could  we  stop,  at  this  glad  hour,  the  wheels 
Of  Time,  and  make  this  point  Eternity ; 
Could  check  that  onward  flight,  which  ever  steals 
Hues,  forms,  and  soul,  as  the  twined  colours  flee, 
Which  are  above  the  seven-fold  Harmony, 
Whose  perfect  concord  meets  in  the  soft  light. 
That  sits  upon  a  wave  of  clouds — a  sea 
Of  rolling  vapour,  pearled  and  purely  white, 
That  as  a  curtain  hangs  the  pale-lit  throne  of  Night 

20 


154 

"  O !  could  we  dwell  in  rapture  thus  forever, 
Hearts  burning  with  a  high  empyreal  flame, 
Whose  blended  cones  no  reckless  storm  could  sever. 
But  they  should  tremble  upward  till  the  same 
Fine  point  of  centred  heat  should  ever  aim 
Higher  and  higher  to  the  perfect  glow ; 
As  Dante  saw  from  that  celestial  Dame,  (flow, 

Once  loved,  now  worshipped,  Heaven's  own  splendors 
And  gather  in  her  smile,  that  looked  so  calm  below. 

"  It  is  not  in  us ;  we  were  fashioned  here 

For  a  more  tranquil  feeling,  such  as  home 

Sheds  on  two  hearts,  whose  true  and  lasting  sphere 

Is  round  the  holy  hearth ;  hearts  do  not  roam, 

When  they  are  pledged  by  the  young  shoots,  that  come? 

Like  the  green  root-twigs,  sweetly  to  renew 

Our  life  in  their  dear  lives,  which  are  the  sum 

Of  all  our  after  being,  where  we  view  (through. 

Heaven,  as  the  soul's  fond  smile  those  rose-lips  trembles 

"  O !  had  I  one  on  whom  to  fix  my  heart, 

To  sit  beside  me  when  my  thoughts  are  sad, 

And  with  her  tender  playfulness  impart 

Some  of  her  pure  joy  to  me,  in  whose  glad 

Up-gazing  eyes,  the  love,  that  once  I  had, 

Might  find  its  lesser  image  formed  complete    * 

In  all  its  mellow  mildness;  we  grow  mad 

In  dwelling  on  ideal  woes — we  meet  (seat. 

Those  loved  looks  in  their  smile,  and  mind  regains  its 


. 


155 

"  And  as  those  blue  eyes  on  the  canvass  throw  > 

Their  watery  glances  to  me,  where  the  tear 

Seems  gathering  to  a  starry  drop,  to  flow 

Down  the  soft  damask  of  her  cheek,  I  hear 

From  her  moved  lips,  a  voice  salute  my  ear, 

That  was  so  kind  and  so  confiding;  pain, 

Which  once  did  throb  within  me,  now  doth  veer 

To  a  calm  stillness ;  the  delirious  brain 

Seems  by  cool  drops  renewed  to  life's  young  bliss  again. 

"  And  I  would  then  that  pictured  form  could  talk 

Of  hours,  that  once  were  happy  in  the  round 

Of  thought  still  growing,  as  at  each  new  walk, 

With  deeper  hue  the  early  bud  is  found, 

Till  it  unfold  its  leaves,  and  scatter  round 

Its  purest  incense; — so  our  life  steals  by 

Catching  new  loves  and  hopes,  which,  closely  wound 

With  every  blended  thought  and  wish,  will  try 

The  heart  to  its  last  throb,  when  loved  ones  leave  or  die. 

"  But  there  is  one  affection,  which  no  stain 

Of  earth  can  ever  darken,  when  two  find, 

The  softer  and  the  manlier,  that  a  chain 

Of  kindred  taste  hath  fastened  mind  to  mind ; — 

'T  is  an  attraction  from  all  sense  refined, 

Not  purer  shone  the  sky-born  vestal  fire ; 

The  good  can  only  know  it;  'tis  not  blind, 

As  love  is,  unto  baseness ;  its  desire 

Is,  but  with  hands  intwined,  to  lift  our  being  higher. 


156 

"  'T  is  like  the  twine  of  hearts  from  infancy 
%  Beneath  the  same  roof,  who  have  kindly  shown 

All  the  fond  aids  of  childhood; — such  we  see 
In  minds,  that  have  one  sympathy,  alone, 
That  answer  to  each  other,  as  the  tone 
Of  woman's  voice  to  the  deep  sounds,  that  flow 
From  the  fit  organ  tubes  more  grandly  blown; 
With  a  dissolving  concord  blended  so, 
On  through  the  waste  of  life  those  happy  spirits  go. 

"  Life  is  to  them  in  its  revolving  years 

One  round  of  fragrance,  one  parterre  of  flowers ; 

There  is  a  very  blessing  in  their  tears, 

They  are,  as  to  the  Earth  the  first  Spring  showers, 

When  wakened  by  the  music  of  the  hours, 

All  loose  their  wintery  bonds,  and  leap  in  air, 

When  up  the  mountain,  which  a  forest  towers, 

The  busy  hands  of  life  their  colours  bear 

Darkening  the  yellow  tint,  till  one  deep  green  is  there. 

"  There  is  a  very  blessing  in  their  tears, 

Their  fountain  is  in  purity,  they  well 

In  a  clean  heart,  whose  fondness  more  endears, 

Than  all  the  forms  and  blended  tints,  that  dwell 

On  a  first  master's  canvass,  and  compel 

Worship  unto  that  miracle  of  skill, 

Which  can  at  once  create,  as  with  a  spell, 

On  the  blank  sheet,  such  things  of  life,  as  fill 

The  gazer  wih  mute  awe,  and  bend  the  sterner  will. 


157 

"  There  is  a  very  blessing  in  their  tears, 

For  while  they  flow  in  happiness,  they  heal 

Wounds  that  bleed  deep  in  other  hearts ; — Grief  hears, 

With  a  sweet  sense  of  gladness,  tones  that  feel 

The  sorrow  they  would  comfort;  we  may  steel, 

In  our  despair,  our  hearts  to  all,  who  lend 

Kindness  to  those  who  suffer ;  but  the  seal 

Of  our  shut  tears  is  broken,  when  a  friend 

Weeps  with  us  all  our  woes,  and  then  our  sorrows  end. 

"  And  we  weep  on  and  smile;  the  cloud  gives  way, 
And  a  new  light  comes  trembling  through  its  shade ; 
We  weep  till  all  our  grief  is  gone,  and  day 
Again  is  pure  above  us; — thus  we  aid 
One  in  another's  evils,  which  were  made 
Partly  to  bind  more  feelingly  the  chain, 
That  links  existence; — we  are  doubly  paid 
By  our  own  calm  from  tears,  and  by  the  pain, 
Which  we  have  gently  healed,  and  made  it  bliss  again. 

"  I  turn  me  back,  and  find  a  barren  waste 

Joyless  and  rayless ;  a  few  spots  are  there, 

Where  briefly  it  was  granted  me  to  taste 

The  tenderness  of  youthful  love,  and  share 

In  the  fond  mutual  sympathy,  the  care 

Of  those  on  whom  our  full  affections  rest : 

I  dreamed,  or  it  was  real ;  but  in  air 

The  charm  was  broken ;  it  was  mine  to  test 

With  a  long  pang  how  dark  and  cold  the  rifled  breast. 


158 

"  There  was  a  madness  in  the  feeling;  fire 

Seemed  to  rush  through  my  whirling  brain ;  one  stream 

Bathed  it  in  torture :  thought  could  never  tire 

In  painting  all,  that  I  could  shape  or  dream 

Of  years  of  mingled  joys,  till  one  supreme 

And  perfect  sense  of  glory  filled  me:  light 

Was  in  my  life — a  moment;  then  the  beam 

Sunk,  and  a  sudden  rush  of  tenfold  night  (blight. 

Chilled  me  to  my  heart's  core;  all  being  seemed  one 

"  And  then  that  deep  intensity  of  pain; — 
I  could  have  pressed  my  forehead  with  the  weight 
Of  a  whole  world,  and  yet  my  throbbing  brain 
Bounded  beneath  my  strained  hand :  all  seemed  hate 
And  leering  scorn  around  me,  tyrant  fate 
Methought  had  stamped  me  for  eternal  woe; 
There  was  no  cool  soft  dew  shed  to  abate 
The  fever  of  despair; — tears  could  not  flow, 
But  with  another's  tears,  and  then  I  melted  so, 

"  As  the  doomed  wretch,  who  on  the  scaffold  hears 
Pardon : — at  first  he  gazes  wildly  round, 
And  mocks  the  offer;  hope  is  lost  in  fears, 
But  as  he  drinks  renewed  the  silver  sound, 
With  such  intensest  joy  his  heart  strings  bound, 
It  is  too  keen,  too  deadening: — tears  first  start 
Few  to  his  swimming  eyes,  but  he  has  found 
Freshness  in  those  scant  drops,  and  then  his  heart 
Flows,  and  his  melting  frame  in  every  gush  takes  part. 


159 


M  I  wept  and  I  was  calm ;  as  when  at  night, 

After  a  stormy  day,  the  sky  turns  clear, 

And  all  the  world  of  stars  are  doubly  bright, 

As  the  cloud  sails  away,  and  the  wide  sphere 

Swells  darkly  pure  behind  it,  till  it  near 

The  orb,  that  rules  the  still  hours,  then  its  fold 

Whitens  and  shines  impearled,  and  then  we  hear 

The  cock  crow,  as  the  silver  planet  rolled  (cold* 

On  the  unshaded  Heaven,  makes  all  things  bright,  but 

"  The  earth,  that  sleeps  below  in  silence,  seems 
Sprinkled  with  light,  for  each  clear  drop  of  rain,    (teems 
That  bends  the  leaves,  and  grass,   and  closed  flowers, 
With  her  mild  lustre; — now  she  casts  a  stain 
On  the  white  clouds  behind  her,  not  in  vain, 
Bending  athwart  their  curls  the  breded  bow ; 
And  as  the  north-wind  whispers  o'er  the  plain. 
The  drops,  that  fell  with  such  a  silent  flow, 
Hardened  to  fretted  frost,  and  whiten  all  below. 

"  It  is  one  land  of  loveliness — but  chill 

Comes  the  pale  landscape  o'er  me — not  a  tread 

Disturbs  the  calm — the  lone  tree  on  the  hill 

Waves  in  its  frosted  foliage — fountains  fed 

From  earth's  warm  bosom,  as  they  kiss  it,  shed 

A  fresh  green  o'er  the  meadow-grass,  alone 

Living  amid  a  world,  that  lies  as  dead 

In  a  pale  corpse-like  beauty,  while  a  zone 

Of  a  most  tender  tint,  round  all  that  is  seems  thrown. 


160 

"  Such  was  calm,  that  brooded  o'er  my  heart, 
Silent  but  cold; — I  wondered,  and  I  grew 
Tranquil,  though  but  a  moment;  as  a  dart 
Leaps  on  the  lurking  deer,  who  wildly  flew, 
Seeking  the  woodland  covert,  as  they  blew 
The  maddening  horn  behind  him,  so  there  came, 
Through  my  hot  brain,  to  madden  me  anew, 
The  same  wild  thoughts,  which  soon  were  blown  to  flame, 
Till  one  convulsive  throb  ran  quivering  through  my  frame. 

"  And  then  I  thought  of  death,  I  sternly  rushed 

To  the  steep  brink,  and  eyed  the  depth  below; 

I  stood  poised  for  the  plunge,  my  forehead  flushed 

With  the  hot  pain  within  me,  seemed  to  glow 

On  the  cool  wave; — with  a  last  parting  throe 

I  yielded  up  my  being,  but  a  thought 

Checked  me,  I  might  not  perish — some  sure  blow, 

That  would  end  all  at  once,  such  death  I  sought, 

To  wither  in  one  breath,  then  go  where  all  is  nought. 

"  Again  I  steeled  me,  and  the  flashing  tip 

Of  a  sharp  dagger  met  my  bounding  breast ; 

It  seemed  with  drops  of  living  blood  to  drip, 

Already  on  the  seat  of  life  'twas  prest, 

And  I  was  sinking  to  eternal  rest, 

When  a  loud  voice  seemed  yelling,  "  Madman,  stay ! 

Bear  with  a  sterner  will  the  stern  behest 

Of  fate ;"  I  threw  the  shining  dirk  away, 

And  with  a  deep  wild  groan  I  hasted  to  obey. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  161 


*'  My  heart  seemed  hardened  from  that  very  hour- 
Feeling  was  deadened  in  it — smiles  and  tears 
Were  gone  forever — friendship  had  no  power 
To  give  me  comfort — all  that  so  endears 
In  the  fair  face  of  woman,  hopes  and  fears 
That  have  in  her  their  fountain,  all  had  fled; 
But  life  had  grown  eternal,  countless  years 
At  once  had  flown,  a  wider  being  spread 
Dark,  silent,  dim  around — 1  wandered  with  the  dead. 

"  And  coldly  I  live  on,  and  will  live  on, 
Till  life  hath  ceased  to  torture,  and  the  grave 
Hides  me  from  man,  and  that  long  home  is  won, 
Which  welcomes  us  to  quench  us,  or  to  save 
From  all  that  sinks  us  here.     O !  I  could  brave 
Hell  and  its  fires,  if  with  it  strength  would  grow ; 
There  is  no  pain  like  weakness — Justice  gave 
No  keener  rack  than  this,  to  live  and  know,  (overthrow. 
Weak,  scorned,  that  our  own  hand  had  wrought  our 

"  Well,  let  the  world  pass  on ;  I  stand  unmoved 

In  all  its  uproar — all,  it  hath  of  good, 

Is  now  turned  poison — those  I  fondly  loved, 

Have  died,  or  hate  me — as  the  tempter  stood 

In  Eden,  nursing  in  his  heart  a  brood 

Of  all  dark  passions,  so  I  look  on  life ; 

I  find  no  charm  without,  my  only  food 

Of  thought  is  in  the  keen  and  quenchless  strife — > 

I  wrestle  with  despair,  where  all  of  ill  is  rife. 


PkRCIVAI/S    POKMS. 

But  evil  is  my  good — I  cannot  turn 

Back  to  renew  the  freshness  of  young  days. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  penitence — I  spurn 

The  weakness  of  the  stooping  wretch,  who  pays 

Awe  to  the  hand  that  crushes  him,  and  lays 

The  weight  of  such  existence  on  his  soul; 

I  asked  not  have  being,  nor  to  raise 

My  life  from  out  the  brute  and  senseless  whole, 

Which  ever  sleeps  the  same,  though  years  and  ages  roll. 

We  must  submit  or  die : — -If  all  would  end 
With  the  last  twinkling  of  this  lamp — why,  well. 
I  could  bear  on — but  thought  will  sometimes  send 
Questions  across  the  dark  dread  gulf,  where  dwell 
All  wild  and  formless  visions — 't  is  the  hell 
That  kindles  with  its  fires  the  doubting  brain  ; 
It  may  be — and  those  few  short  words  will  tell 
Racks  to  the  lingering  heart,  that  longs  in  vain 
To  find  some  calm  retreat  to  quell  its  raging  pain. 

There  is,  they  say,  a  bending  form  of  love, 
Who  spreads  his  dove-wings  over  us,  and  bears 
The  wearied  in  his  gentle  arms  above 
All  earth  has  to  assail  us,  sorrows,  cares, 
Toil,  and  disease,  and  want,  till  cool  sweet  airs 
Breathe  odours  from  the  never-fading  flowers 
That  grow  in  Heaven,  where  peace  eternal  wears 
The  same  undying  smile,  and  as  the  hours 
Steal  silently  along,  descends  in  balmy  showers. 


163 

5Tis  a  fond  fancy — some  may  find  it  sweet, 

Full  of  all  happy  visions — life  will  seem 

Bliss  in  their  upward  longings — there  they  meet 

All  their  once  loved  ones  heightened — such  a  dream 

Heals  many  a  broken  heart,  and  then  they  deem 

All  is  one  light  around  them :  let  them  bend 

Deep  o'er  their  long  devotion — let  the  theme 

Of  all  their  words  be,  of  the  one  Great  Friend, 

Who  saves  them  from  all  pain,  and  bids  all  sorrows  end. 

"  'Tis  not  for  me — I  am  of  sterner  mould; 

I  must  live  on  in  my  own  heart,  and  find 

Strength  to  sustain — by  thought;  my  only  hold 

Is  on  that  unbent  energy  of  mind, 

Which,  as  the  storm  beats  harder  on,  will  bind 

Closer  its  will  around  it,  and  endure ; 

Which  shuns  all  concord  with  its  own  base  kind, 

Where  it  forever  totters,  but  grows  pure 

And  firm  in  solitude,  which  is  its  only  cure. 

"  I  will  not  look  on  Nature — 't  is  too  fair, 
And  hath  too  much  of  beauty,  when  it  lies 
Spread  in  the  sunlight ; — we  must  hate,  or  share 
In  the  same  being; — when  the  clouded  skies 
In  one  black  front  of  coming  tempest  rise, 
And  bear  their  rolling  waves  in  torrents  on, 
Then  I  can  wander  forth,  and  lift  my  eyes 
With  a  wild  sense  of  power — the  hollow  moan 
Of  the  far  mountain  winds  hath  music  in  its  tone. 


164  PERCIVAL'S 

"  I  must  make  home  in  darkness — I  can  sit 

Days  on  the  sunward  rocks,  that  crown  the  peak 

Of  a  long  Alpine  wave — such  things  befit 

The  soul  collected  in  its  might  to  seek 

Food  in  the  desert :  as  the  raven's  beak 

Bore  life  unto  the  lonely  man,  so  I 

Feed  on  the  darkest  forms,  and  proudly  wreak 

My  wrath  on  Nature,  who  hath  bent  the  sky 

So  glorious  and  so  vast,  round  such  as  crawl  and  die. 

"  The  sense  of  fair  and  lofty — this  will  wring 
The  form,  that  finds  itself  in  cold  decay, 
Hateful  to  those  we  loved,  and  thus  we  fling 
The  wooing  Beauty  from  us,  and  array 
All  in  a  shroud:  we  cast  all  hope  away, 
As  a  fond  thing  to  cheat  the  infant ;  pride 
Comes  where  ambition  fled,  and  when  the  gay 
And  lovely  from  our  dark  looks  turn  aside, 
Abhorrent  and  in  fear,  our  part  is  to  deride. 

"  We  have  gone  through  the  dusk  of  death,  and  known 

All  the  grave  hath  of  horrors ;  we  have  seen 

Each  separate  form  of  pain,  have  heard  the  groan, 

And  the  loud  maniac  laugh;  wre  too  have  been 

Partakers  in  these  torments,  and  have  then 

Come  out  to  be  the  scorner,  and  to  wear 

One  broad  cold  sneer ; — we  have  no  part  with  men, 

But  like  a  leering  devil  we  must  bear 

Proud  on  our  upcurled  lips,  the  scoflfthat  trembles  there,. 


165 


"  We  now  can  smile,  and  feel  at  heart  a  hell — 
'Tis  a  blue  meteor  on  a  cloud,  that  brings 
Plague  o'er  a  sleeping  earth,  and  tolls  the  knell 
Of  a  lost  land,  and  scatters  from  its  wings 
Big  drops  of  venom; — such  the  smile,  hate  wrings 
From  the  crushed  heart,  that  hardened  as  it  bore; 
So  I  must  live,  and  look  on  men  as  things 
That  are  my  bane — so  hide  in  my  heart's  core 
The  grief  I  cannot  tell,  till  life's  poor  dream  is  o'er, 

"  Then  be  my  spirit  firm :  the  storm  may  rush 
In  all  its  rage  around  me — clouds  may  rend 
Their  gloom  in  one  broad  flash,  and  in  one  gush 
Pour  their  wide  deluge  o'er  me — Earth  may  send 
Swarms  of  all  ills  and  plagues — they  shall  not  bend 
My  soul  from  its  fixed  bearing:  here  on  high, 
Where  the  rude  rocks,  and  snows  eternal,  lend 
Bulwarks  to  my  retreat,  and  the  clear  sky 
Lifts  over  me  its  roof — I  sternly  sit  and  die." 

'T  is  the  wild  rage  of  madness,  thus  to  send 
Defiance  unto  nature,  thus  to  build 
A  w:Jl  of  scorpions,  cherishing  a  fiend 
Within  a  human  bosom,  sternly  willed 
To  be  the  common  foe,  and  darkly  filled 
With  all  that  form  the  worst  of  passions — hate, 
Till  every  warning  voice  within  is  stilled, 
And  all  is  nerved  to  meet  the  doom  of  fate, 
As  if  man  stood  alone  without  a  lord  or  mate ; 


166 

As  if  these  feeble  bodies  had  the  power 

To  battle  with  the  elements,  to  stand 

Sole,  as  an  oak,  to  whom  the  wintry  shower 

And  summer  dew  fall  like :  no  heart  is  manned. 

Or  fenced  in  iron,  that  the  icy  hand 

Of  want  may  not  subdue  it,  and  compel 

The  boldest  daring  to  its  stern  command; 

'T  is  the  relentless  tyrant  of  a  hell, 

In  whose  cold  sordid  dens  the  heart  turns  hard  and  fell. 

Man  is  a  very  infant,  when  alone ; — 
The  desert,  and  the  forest,  and  the  sea 
Lifting  its  boundless  brine,  and  with  a  zone 
Of  azure  clasping  earth — Man  cannot  be, 
Lost  in  their  barren  silence,  firm  and  free — 
Nature  will  lift  her  voice,  and  bend  him  low; 
Thirst,  hunger,  fear,  and  madness,  like  the  tree 
Whose  dew  is  death,  a  chilling  shade  will  throw, 
Where  the  heart  kindles  not  with  a  fond  social  glow. 

Then  farewell  Solitude !  where  hate  is  nursed, 
And  doubt  is  cherished;  I  would  rend  away 
The  links  that  bind  my  spirit  there,  and  burst 
From  my  dark  cell  of  silence  into  day, 
And  climb  with  tireless  hand  my  upward  way, 
Where  all,  who  wield  the  hearts  of  men,  have  trod; 
Honour  and  love  are  there,  and  these  repay 
For  the  dull  cares  and  toils,  wherein  we  plod — 
They  have  a  spell  to  charm  the  slave,  who  turns  the  clod. 


PEROT  VAL'S  POEMS.  167 

Why  mount  the  higher  track,  that  leads  to  fame? 
Why  seek  to  twine  a  halo  round  thy  brow? 
Can  the  wide  echo  of  a  bruited  name 
Stifle  the  cry  of  vulgar  want,  when  thou 
Art  in  the  ruder  conflict  forced  to  bow 
To  the  hard  insolence  of  common  men  ? 
Better  have  dug  the  earth,  or  steered  the  prow, 
Than  gain  the  heights  which  few  can  gain,  and  then 
Drudge  in  the  sordid  path,  where  meaner  minds  have  been, 

And  wherefore  doubt  ?  Belief  is  doubly  dear, 

When  truth  has  never  drawn  aside  the  veil, 

That  hides  the  laws  of  nature.     All  who  fear. 

Will  find  a  hope — one  voice  can  ill  avail 

Amid  the  cry  of  thousands — we  must  quail 

Submissive  to  the  common  creed,  or  die, 

Should  fortune  waft  not  with  a  flattering  gale, 

And  send  the  gilded  bark  in  triumph  by — 

They  can  do  all,  who  daze  with  pomp  the  vulgar  eye, 

My  work  is  ended — I  have  gained  the  shore, 

Whose  flowers  are  fancy,  and  whose  fruits  deceit  5 

And  I  have  furled  my  sail  to  try  no  more 

The  gentle  breath  of  favour,  nor  to  beat 

With  adverse  gales,  nor  where  the  wild  winds  meet 

On  the  contending  waters :  Youth's  quick  swell 

Is  sunk  to  manhood's  calm,  and  now  my  feet 

Must  take  a  weary  pilgrimage,  and  tell, 

On  through  the  waste  of  age,  to  all  I  loved — farewell. 


THE  SUICIDE. 


*T  WAS  where  a  granite  cliff  high-beetling  towered 
Above  the  billows  of  the  western  main, 
Deep  in  a  grot,  by  sable  yews  imbowered, 
A  youth  retired  to  ponder  and  complain. 

'T  was  near  the  night-fall  of  a  winter's  day, 
The  sun  was  hid  in  clouds  of  dunnest  gloom ; 
Before  the  north  wind  rose  the  whitening  spray  > 
And  the  loud  breakers  roared  the  sailor's  doom. 

Dark,  sullen,  gloomy  as  the  scene  around, 
The  soul  that  harboured  in  that  youthful  breast; 
To  him  the  wild  roar  was  a  soothing  sound, 
The  only  one,  could  hush  his  woes  to  rest. 

His  was  a  soul  that  once  was  warm  and  kind — 
That  once  could  love  with  gentlest,  purest  flame; 
So  mild,  so  lovely  was  his  infant  mind, 
His  cheek  ne'er  reddened  with  the  blush  of  shame. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  169 

But  never  could  he  brook  the  frown  of  pride — 
This  was  the  killing  stroke  that  smote  his  heart ; 
All  other  wounds  of  fortune  he  defied — 
This — this  to  him  was  death's  envenomed  dart* 

He  felt  himself  too  erood  to  crouch  and  bend 
Before  the  man  whose  only  boast  was  birth; 
O!  he  would  sooner  his  own  bosom  rpnd. 
Than  bow  before  the  haughtiest  lord  of  earth. 


~ 


There  was  a  savaore  sternness  in  his  breast; 
N^  half-way  passion  co^ld  his  bosom  move, 
None  e'er  bv  him  were  scorned  and  then  caressed ; 
His  was  all  gloomy  hate,  or  glowing  love. 

Those,  whom  he  scorned,  he  passed  unheeded  by- 
He  never  lured  a  foe  with  artful  wile, 
But  when  a  friend  or  lover  met  his  eye, 
Each  word  was  sweetness,  and  each  look  a  smile. 

He  once  could  love,  but  Oh!  that  time  was  o'er; 
His  heart  was  now  the  seat  of  hate  alone, 
As  peaceful — is  the  wintry  tempest's  roar, 
As  cheerful — torture's  agonizing  groan. 

He  would  have  loved,  had  not  his  frozen  heart 
Suspected  every  form,  though  e'er  so  fair; 
How  could  he  love,  when  racked  by  every  smart, 
And  all  the  gloomy  horrors  of  despair  ? 


170  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

Insult  him — he  was  wilder  than  the  storm — 
His  blood  in  boiling  vengeance  through  him  rushed, 
And  those  who  thought  they  trampled  on  a  worm, 
Soon  found  an  adder  in  the  form  they  crushed. 

In  dissipation  he  had  revelled  long, 
Had  known  the  wildest  paths  that  vice  e'er  trod  j 
He  roamed,  seduced  by  pleasure's  syren  song. 
Until  he  hated  man,  himself,  and  God. 

He  hated  man,  because  he  thought  a  foe 
Smiled  in  each  scene,  and  lurked  in  every  path ; 
He  scorned  himself,  for  he  had  sunk  so  low; 
He  hated  God,  because  he  feared  his  wrath. 

So  warm  his  passions,  and  so  stern  his  will, 
So  wild,  and  yet  so  tender,  was  his  eye, 
So  warped  his  heart  to  every  thing  that's  ill, 
He  was  not  fit  to  live — much  less  to  die. 

The  wind  that  whistled  round  the  gloomy  walls, 
The  billows  roaring  on  the  rocks  below, 
The  trickling  drop  that  freezes  as  it  falls, 
Seemed  warm  and  cheerful  as  that  child  of  woe. 

Oft  had  I  seen  this  youth  pass  heedless  by, 
All  negligent  his  dress,  and  wild  his  mien; 
The  tear  was  always  starting  in  his  eye, 
smile  was  never  in  his  features  seen. 


•• 


171 

With  languid  air,  with  eye  by  sorrow  seared, 
And  downcast  look  he  walked — then  paused  awhile. 
And  in  the  darkness  of  his  gloom  he  feared 
To  raise  his  head,  lest  he  should  see  a  smile. 

So  much  the  victim  of  despair  and  fear, 
He  look'd  more  sadly  when  he  heard  one  speak ; 
And  when  he  saw  a  smile — O  !  then  the  tear 
Streamed  o'er  the  furrows  of  his  woe-worn  cheek. 

So  wan  his  cheek,  his  countenance  so  pale, 
He  seemed  just  sinking  to  an  early  tomb; 
So  tottering  were  his  steps,  his  form  so  frail, 
A  ghost  seemed  wandering  in  the  cavern's  gloom. 

He  walked,  then  stopped ;  then  started,  stopped  again : 
Then  raised  to  Heaven  his  wild  and  impious  eye; 
Then  gnashed  his  teeth,  as  in  severest  pain, 
Or  feebly  groaned,  or  heaved  a  long  drawn  sigh. 

With  hands  in  fury  clenched,  he  beat  his  breast, 
Then  smote  his  forehead — stamped,  and  wildly  raved: 
It  seemed,  no  soothing  hand  could  give  him  rest, 
He  seemed  too  far  abandoned  to  be  saved. 

"  Are  these  the  joys  of  life,"  he  wildly  cried, 
"  Are  these  the  pleasures  man  enjoys  below? 
The  syren  voice  that  said  '  be  happy'  lied, 
It  called  me  not  to  happiness — but  woe. 


172  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS, 

"  Life — 't  is  a  pang  that  racks  us  for  awhile. 
Then  like  a  bubble  bursts  and  all  is  o'er; 
Its  highest  joys,  even  woman's  lovely  smile, 
To  me  are  gloomy  as  yon  billows'  roar. 

"  I'll  live  no  more — I  know  the  world  too  well— 
I'll  trust  no  longer  to  its  soothing  voice — 
Let  those  who  choose,  in  pain  and  sorrow  dwell — • 
Death  is  my  fondest — death  my  only  choice. 

"  Live — shall  I  live  without  the  slightest  meed, 
Without  one  voice  to  dwell  upon  my  name, 
With  hand  too  weak  to  do  one  noble  deed, 
Or  pluck  one  leaflet  from  the  wreath  of  fame — 

"  Live,  while  consumption,  ghastly,  gloomy,  pale, 
Even  to  a  shadow  wears  my  form  away; 
Shrink  at  the  rustling  of  the  gentlest  gale, 
And  pine,  to  dark  despondency  a  prey: 

"  Say,  is  this  life? — how  trifling,  oh  how  vain, 
To  give  one  struggle  for  a  world  like  this; 
How  cold,  how  heavy,  pleasure's  flowery  chain, 
How  sickening,  every  cup  of  earthly  bliss. 

"  I've  drained  the  goblet,  and  I  know  how  vile, 
How  mean  and  empty  all  terrestrial  joys; 
Reason  surveys  them  with  a  pitying  smile, 
And  stamps  with  words  of  lightning  l  infant  toys/ 


173 

"  How  easy,  when  depression  sinks  me  low, 
To  leave  this  world  and  seek  another  shore; 
Careless,  if  pleasure  laugh — or  all  be  woe, 
If  smooth  the  waves — or  loud  the  billows  roar. 

"  How  easy,  O !  how  trifling,  with  the  steel 
To  pierce  a  heart  that  loves  no  scene  below, 
To  wound  a  breast  too  callous  e'er  to  feel 
A  pang  less  cruel  than  a  demon's  woe. 

"  Does  not  the  smiling  surface  of  the  wave 
Kindly  invite  to  take  my  endless  sleep? 
How  sweet  to  rest  within  a  watery  grave  5 
How  soft  those  slumbers — that  repose  how  deep. 

"  The  death-winged  ball — can  pierce  my  phrenzied  brain, 
The  knife — can  loose  the  shackles  of  my  soul, 
An  opiate — that  can  ease  my  every  pain, 
Smiles,  how  inviting ! — in  the  poisoned  bowl. 

"  And  thou,  sweet  drug  ! — can'st  shed  the  balmy  dew 
Of  sleep  eternal,  o'er  my  wearied  eyes, 
And  give  repose,  as  calm  to  mortal  view 
As  when  the  infant  wrapt  in  slumber  lies. 

"  Still  thou  art  slow  though  sure — ah !  can  I  wait 
A  single  moment,  ere  I  sink  in  death; 
Perhaps  I  may  lament  it  when  too  late, 
And  struggle  to  regain  my  fleeting  breath. 


174 

"  Give  me  the  knife,  the  dagger,  or  the  ball — 
O !  I  can  take  them  with  a  smile  serene ; 
Then  like  a  flash  of  lightning  I  may  fall, 
And  rush  at  once  into  the  world  unseen." 

The  withered  leaves,  that  decked  a  beechen  bough. 
Rustled — he  turned  and  gazed  with  frozen  stare; 
Such  gloom,  such  horror,  settled  on  his  brow, 
He  seemed  the  very  image  of  despair  : 

"  Disturb  me  not — there's  nought  can  give  relief, 
Heaven  deigns  no  soothing  comforter  to  send; 
There  is  but  one  can  sooth  my  gnawing  grief, 
It  is  the  best  of  earthly  good — a  friend. 

"  A  friend — I  thought  I  once  had  friends — but  No ! 
Friendship,  thou  cherub !  ne'er  wert  to  me  given ; 
Friendship  is  not  a  flower  that  blooms  below — 
If  there  is  friendship  it  must  be  in  Heaven : 

"  And  when  I've  seen  the  pious  widow's  woe, 
And  viewed  no  Christian  friend  or  heaven-born  fair 
E'er  deign  to  wipe  away  the  tears  that  flow, 
I've  thought  even  friendship  was  not  real  there : 

"  And  when  no  human  form  on  me  would  roll 

The  glance  that  soothes,  or  beam  the  smiles  that  bless, 

My  dog,  the  only  solace  of  my  soul, 

Even  bit  the  hand  extended  to  caress. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  175 

"  What,  if  some  female  form  should  deign  to  smile, 
And  chase  away  the  gloom  that  clouds  my  breast, 
Could  I  be  happy — could  I  stay  awhile  ? 
Yes,  woman's  smile  could  make  me  cheerful — blessed. 

"  The  heart — that's  tortured  with  remorse  is  dead 
To  all  the  joys  that  woman's  love  can  give; 
Affection  does  not  smile  where  hope  is  fled ; 
Where  conscience  frowns,  that  charmer  cannot  live. 

"  Can  Love,  the  sweetest  cherub,  ever  deign 
To  live,  where  doubt,  despair,  distraction,  dwell: 
Ah !  no — this  fond  idea  must  be  vain, 
Love  in  my  bosom  is  a  saint  in  hell. 


"  Let  others  boast  their  skill  to  charm  the  soul, 
And  proffer  pleasure  to  the  expecting  eye, 
To  bid  the  glance  with  mimic  sweetness  roll, 
And  heave  the  bosom  with  an  empty  sigh ; 

"  Away  such  base  deceivers  from  my  sight, 
Hide  them,  ye  shades  of  midnight !  from  my  view ; 
Think  you  such  flatteries  can  my  soul  delight ! 
Farewell  such  love,  such  hollow  friends  adieu. 

"  No  smooth  deceit  e'er  floated  from  my  tongue, 
By  flattery's  wiles  these  lips  of  mine  ne'er  moved ; 
On  them — on  them  this  truth  has  always  hung, 
*  I  ever  hated  all,  and  nothing  loved.' 


176 

"  And  what  if  man,  or  woman  shun  my  form, 
And  view  a  tiger  in  the  gloom  I  wear; 
To  me  their  smiles  are  blacker  than  the  storm, 
There  seems  a  serpent  ever  lurking  there. 

"The  charms  of  vice  detained  my  soul  too  long 
What  sounds  of  sweetness  in  her  love-notes  flow: 
But  misery's  sigh  is  in  her  sweetest  song, 
And  in  her  gayest  smile  the  tear  of  woe. 

"  The  eye  that  beams  so  fondly — ill  conceals 
Distraction's  silent  gaze  and  icy  glare? 
The  lip  that  smiles  so  sweetly — still  reveals 
The  paleness,  and  the  quivering  of  despair. 

kt  I  drank  her  cup  of  promised  bliss — I  lay 
In  soft  repose  on  beds  of  roses  flung, 
There  heard  her  Ariel  harp  its  wind-notes  play, 
And  all  the  syren-music  of  her  tongue — 

"  In  slumber  soft,  I  closed  my  swimming  eves, 
While  sounds  exstatic  seemed  around  to  flow: 
I  slept — no  more  in  happiness  to  rise; 
I  closed  my  eyes  to  bliss — I  woke  to  woe. 

"  Look  at  my  eye,  and  see  the  glare  of  pain; 
Look  at  my  cheek,  it  is  the  hue  of  death ; 
See  there  the  softness  of  her  flow'ry  chain, 
There  mark  the  sweetness  of  her  balmy  breath. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  177 

•*  Shun,  shun  the  road  she  points  to— death  is  there; 

Her  sweetest  voice  is  but  a  funeral  knell, 

Her  gayest  smile  is  but  the  gloom  of  care, 

And  though  she  calls  to  heaven,  she  leads  to  hell. 

"  What's  earth,  what's  life,  to  space,  eternity  ? 
'Tis  but  a  flash,  a  glance — from  birth  to  death; 
And  he,  who  ruled  the  world,  would  only  be 
Lord  of  a  point — a  creature  of  a  breath ; 

"  And  what  is  it  to  gain  a  hero's  name, 
Or  build  one's  greatness  on  the  rabble's  roar? 
'Tis  but  to  light  a  feeble,  flickering  flame, 
That  shines  a  moment,  and  is  seen  no  more. 

"  Once  Caesar  gained  the  summit  of  renown, 
For  him  fame's  trumpet  blew  its  loudest  peals; 
But  what  to  him  is  Glory's  shining  crown  ? 
It  heightens  but  the  blackness  it  reveals. 

"  What  is  the  greatness  Science  can  display, 
Or  from  the  best  tuned  lyre  what  can  we  gain? 
But  tkat  the  fluttering  insect  of  a  day 
May  hum  our  praise,  and  all  be  still  again. 

"  What  if  a  Titian's  tints,  a  Ruben's  fire, 
A  Raphael's  grandeur  o'er  my  canvass  glow? 
These  tints,  that  fire,  that  grandeur,  soon  expire, 
And  melt  as  quickly  as  the  summer's  snow, 
23 


178  I'ERCIVAL'S    POfiMS. 

"  Let  boastful  Wealth  his  richest  stores  unfold. 
And  Pride  his  pomp  of  ancestry  display; 
A  speck  of  yellow  dust  is  all  their  gold, 
An  infant's  rattle — all  their  proud  array. 

"  What  praise  to  shine  in  fashion's  brighest  ray. 
What  is  that  Fame  by  fops  so  dearly  sought? 
'T  is  but  the  mere  ephemeron  of  a  day — 
'T  is  but  the  very  meanest  part  of  nought. 

"  And  thou,  proud  monarch,  frowning  on  thy  throne! 
What  is  the  space  between  thy  power  and  me? 
JT  is  but  to  sit  above  the  crowd  alone, 
And  lord  it  o'er  a  few  poor  worms  like  thee. 

"  Ah !  when  I  look  on  man,  and  see  how  low, 
How  vile  has  sunk  the  basely  grovelling  crowd, 
I  still  can  scarcely  think  this  child  of  wo 
Can  have  sufficient  meanness  to  be  proud. 

"  Depart,  Renown,  O !  hie  thee  far  away ! 
And  Fortune,  though  in  all  thy  splendour  drest; 
O !  from  this  world  you've  torn  my  only  stay, 
And  left  not  even  one  motive  in  my  breast. 

"  This  world  has  now  so  dull  and  gloomy  grown, 
So  sickening  every  sight  where'er  I  range — 
'Mid  all  life's  bustle,  I  am  still  so  lone, 
I'd  leave  it,  were  it  only  for  a  change. 


ft       ^  .] 


170 

•"  What  balm  shall  heal  my  wounds,  or  soothe  my  woes, 
How  shall  I  sink  to  my  untimely  grave, 
Shall  this  sweet  opiate  lull  me  to  repose, 
Or  shall  I  plunge  beneath  the  roaring  wave  ? 

"  Come,  sweetest  draught,  I  woo  thee  to  my  lips 
With  all  the  fondness  of  a  lover's  breast; 
No  thirsty,  weary  pilgrim  fondlier  sips 
The  cooling  fount,  or  lays  him  down  to  rest. 

"  Come,  do  thy  work,  and  free  my  struggling  soul, 
Swift  as  the  lightning — from  life's  heavy  chain; 
I  care  not  if  I  reach  Heaven's  shining  goal, 
Or  plunge  beneath  the  waves  of  endless  pain. 

"  You  gave  me  life — take  back  the  gift  you  gave. 
Nor  think  I'd  thank  you  for  such  trash  as  this; 
Sweeter  to  me  annihilation's  grave, 
O !  sweeter  than  the  highest  heaven  of  bliss. 

46  Roll  on  the  winds  your  most  terrific  storm, 
And  shade  the  skies  with  more  than  Egypt's  gloom; 
Then  with  your  vengeful  lightnings  scathe  my  form, 
And  hurl  me  to  my  never-ending  doom. 

"  I've  plunged  in  guilt,  till  I  can  plunge  no  more, 
I've  been  to  man  and  God  the  fellest  foe  ; 
On  me — on  me  each  cup  of  fury  pour, 
And  whelm  me  in  the  deepest  gulf  of  wo." 

;  ^ 


T^P^' 

180 

But  ere  the  sun  had  dipped  his  orb  of  light 
Beneath  the  wave  that  swelled  along  the  main, 
A  momentary  brilliance  met  the  sight, 
And  shone  reflected  o'er  the  watery  plain. 

The  trembling  lustre  glanced  upon  his  eye- 
There  was  a  something,  neither  smile  nor  tear, 
A  sound,  nor  comfort's  voice,  nor  sorrow's  sigh, 
Fell  scarcely  heard  upon  the  listener's  ear. 

"  Can  there  no  ray  like  this  of  mercy  shine, 
To  dissipate  my  soul's  terrific  gloom  f 
Is  there  no  beam  from  Heaven,  no  light  divine, 
Can  gild  the  path  that  leads  me  to  my  tomb  ? 

"  Must  all  within  be  desolate  and  sad, 
Must  all  seem  frowning  to  the  mental  sight, 
When  the  last  sun-beam  makes  all  nature  glad, 
And  ushers  in  with  smiles  the  shades  of  night  ? 

"  May  I  not  hope,  although  dark  clouds  of  wo 
Hang  o'er  my  soul  and  sink  it  to  the  grave; 
May  1  not  hope  for  happiness  below, 
That  Heaven  will  smile,  and  mercy  deign  to  save? 

"  The  light  is  gone,  and  all  is  dark  again, 
So  flies  the  light  that  shone  upon  my  soul; 
Night's  horrors  thicken  o'er  the  heaving  main. 
So,  round  my  heart,  despair,  distraction  roll. 


PERCIVAL  S    POEMS. 


181 


"  What!  shall  I  catch  at  hope's  illusive  gleams, 
That  glance  like  meteors  through  my  phrenzied  brain  ? 
What !  shall  I  trust  to  fancy's  wildering  dreams  ? 
No!  death  and  ruin  welcome  once  again. 

"  No !  I  can  pierce  the  grave's  tremendous  gloom, 
And  through  its  dunnest  shades  unfaltering  pry, 
Can  read  with  look  unmoved  my  direst  doom, 
And  view  the  world  of  wo  with  heedless  eye — 

"  O !  you  may  tell  me  of  the  quenchless  flame, 
And  gnawing  worm  that  never,  never  dies, 
Or  read  each  furious  devil  name  by  name — 
The  hottest  hell  within  my  bosom  lies. 

"  Is  this  your  kindness — you  who  made  my  soul, 

And  formed  it  to  be  sensible  of  wo, 

Then  bade  a  world  of  anguish  o'er  it  roll, 

And  through  my  veins  despair's  dark  currents  flow  ? 

"  Why  was  I  made  for  misery  alone, 

Why  were  my  joys  but  preludes  to  my  pain, 

Why  was  my  voice  but  formed  to  breathe  the  groan, 

Or  why  my  tongue  but  fashioned  to  complain  ? 

"  You  bade  a  thousand  pleasures  round  me  smile, 
But  mingled  poison  in  their  balmy  breath ; 
Bade  angel  forms  exert  their  every  wile, 
To  lure  me  sweetly  on  to  sin  and  death : 


182 

"  In  this  your  kindness — thus  to  charm  my  eyes, 

By  what  would  certainly  my  soul  undo? 

O !  is  it  not  sufficient  to  chastise, 

Must  you  allure  me,  and  then  punish  too  ? 

"  O !  happy  prospect !  for  before  my  sight 

Annihilation  rises  dark  and  drear  : 

Or  to  my  vision  glares  hell's  murky  light, 

And  sighs,  and  groans,  and  gnashings,  fill  my  ear. 

"  What  clouds  around  the  grave's  dark  regions  roll- 
I'd  give  the  wealth  of  worlds  to  pierce  their  gloom, 
And  read,  imprinted  on  the  eternal  scroll, 
"  The  awful  words  of  flame  that  mark  my  doom. 

"  The  thoughts  of  an  hereafter  wake  my  fear, 
And  fill  my  soul  with  agonizing  throes ; 
Methinks  some  accent  whispers  in  my  ear 
And  tells  me — nothing  will  my  pangs  compose. 

"  Nothing ! — there's  something  awful  in  that  sound ; 
O !  shall  my  all  be  crumbled  into  dust — 
Shall  mind — shall  body  rot  beneath  the  ground, 
Nor  soul  immortal  from  my  cerement  burst  ? 

"  Nothing ! — away  thou  phantom  from  my  brain, 
Away  thou  deadlier  fiend  than  ever  rose 
To  rack  the  doubting  soul  with  hellish  pain, 
Or  fill  it  with  a  maniac  fancy's  woes. 


*ERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  183 

*  Nothing ! — unreal  shade  of  all  that's  ill, 
Cease,  cease  thy  clamours,  nor  disturb  me  more — 
Hush !  let  that  demon  voice  of  thine  be  still, 
O !  hie  thee  to  thy  dark  Tartarean  shore. 

"  What  if  T  pry  beyond  the  yawning  grave; 
Is  there  a  light  can  point  my  wildered  way, 
Is  there  an  arm  of  Mercy  stretched  to  save  ? 
O!  help  that  arm,  and  guide  me,  genial  ray. 

• 
"  I  look,  but  all  is  darker  than  the  gloom 

That  hung,  a  sooty  mist,  o'er  Egypt's  land; 

I  listen,  all  is  stiller  than  the  tomb ; 

There  is  no  ray — no  Mercy's  outstretched  hand. 

"  Come,  then,  each  busy  devil  to  my  breast, 
Come  every  fiend  of  hell,  and  nestle  there — 
Rack  me — Religion  cannot  give  me  rest; 
If  Mercy  will  not  whisper — yell,  despair ! 

"  My  ear  is  open  to  thy  piercing  cry — 
Pour  it — to  every  suffering  I'm  resigned; 
But  hark ! — methought  I  heard  an  angel  fly 
With  downy  pinions  on  the  passing  wind. 

"  No !  'twas  an  idle  fancy — mock  no  more, 
Thou  cheating  spirit,  thou  art  false  though  fair; 
No !  'twas  the  wave  of  ruin's  sullen  roar, 
No !  'twas  the  hollow  voice  of  dark  despair.. 


184 

"  Come,  grisly  Death !  and  whet  thy  bloody  dart ; 
Come  waft  upon  the  breeze  my  dying  knell ; 
O!  misery  and  woe  have  filled  my  heart, 
O !  hell  to  me  is  nothing — nothing's  hell." 

He  said,  and  lifted  high  the  poisoned  draught ; 
"  This  gives,"  he  cried,  "  my  body  to  the  tomb — 
To  nothing — dreary  nothing,  it  shall  waft 
My  soul,  or  yield  it  to  its  endless  doom. 

"  A  doom,  that  strikes  my  shuddering  soul  with  dread. 
And  almost  drives  my  purpose  from  my  breast; 
Speak  not  those  words — for  every  hope  is  fled; 
In  death,  in  darkness,  is  my  only  rest. 

"  Come  to  my  lips,"  he  spake,  with  features  calm, 
"  Come  to  my  lips — thou  cordial  of  my  woes  ; 
Pour  in  my  wounded  heart  thy  healing  balm, 
And  in  eternal  sleep  my  eyelids  close. 

"  Come,  lovely  draught!  O!  lovelier  than  the  spring! 
And  sweeter  than  the  morning's  dewy  breath ! 
Come,  to  my  soul  oblivion's  comforts  bring." 
He  said,  and  calmly  drank  the  cup  of  death. 

When  life  was  weak  and  faint,  his  ardent  soul 
Unfolded  all  the  vigour  of  its  powers ; 
Then  through  the  fields  of  lore  he  flew  and  stole, 
With  ceaseless  toil,  the  honey  of  its  flowers. 


185 

His  heart  expanded  with  his  growing  mind, 
And  love,  and  charity,  and  thirst  of  fame, 
Unbending  worth,  ambition  unconfined, 
O!  these  he  wished,  his  bosom's  only  aim. 

O !  he  would  think  of  these,  until  the  glow 
Brightened  his  cheek  and  kindled  up  his  eye; 
Then  in  a  rushing  flood  his  thoughts  would  flow. 
And  lift  him  to  the  all-o'erarching  sky. 

And  yet  his  soul  was  tender — there  was  one 
Who  made  his  heart  throb  and  his  pulses  beat; 
She  was  his  all,  his  only  light,  his  Sun — 
Her  eye  was  brightest,  and  her  voice  most  sweet. 

The  was  to  him  an  angel — he  was  young, 
The  down  of  youth  had  just  begun  to  grow ; 
His  eye  forever  on  her  image  hung, 
There  would  his  centering  thoughts  forever  flow, 

O !  love  how  ill  requited — could  a  soul, 
Then  soaring  to  perfection,  blend  with  one, 
Who  only  thought  of  transient  sport,  whose  whole 
Enjoyment  ceased  below,  where  his  begun. 

And  then  his  fearfulness  and  shrinking  eye — 
She  knew  her  power,  and  yet  she  could  not  know 
The  worth  of  him,  who  doated — with  a  sigh 
Of  grief  and  wounded  pride  he  let  her  go, 

24 


186 


First  love — with  what  a  deep,  strong,  fixed  impress, 
It  prints  the  yielding  heart  of  childhood — gone, 
No  other  eye  the  lone  lost  soul  can  bless, 
Hope  then  is  fled,  the  feelings  are  undone. 

How  all  unequal  were  his  mind  and  form- — 

This  knew  the  blinking  owls,  that  shunned  his  light: 

To  wound  his  bosom,  and  to  raise  the  storm 

He  ill  could  master,  seemed  their  sole  delight. 

Abused,  neglected,  fatherless,  no  hand 
To  guide  or  guard  him,  left  alone  to  steer 
His  dangerous  way — can  youth  securely  stand. 
When  not  a  parent,  friend,  or  hope,  is  near? 

He  conquered  in  intelligence,  but  those 

Who  felt  his  strength  there,  still  his  weakness  knew; 

They  crushed  his  spirit  first,  and  then  to  close 

Their  work — they  made  him  like  their  grovelling  crew. 

The  light  of  Heaven  was  gone — ambition  still 
Lurked  with  him  to  the  last,  but  he  was  blind; 
And  genius  struggled  on  through  every  ill, 
But  peace  and  innocence  were  left  behind. 

Years  hurried  by — but  what  a  raging  sea 
Was  that  young  heart — wild  as  a  steed  he  ran. 
Till  he  was  swallowed  in  misanthropy, 
And  swore  eternal  enmity  to  man. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  18? 

And  yet  he  could  not  hate — at  every  look, 
That  told  the  wounded  bosom's  throbbing  swell. 
His  frame  in  sympathetic  shivering  shook, 
His  hand  though  raised  in  wrath,  in  pity  felL 

He  longed  to  cast  his  hateful  chains  away, 
He  longed  to  be  all  virtue,  reason,  soul ; 
In  vain  he  strove  against  the  headlong  sway 
Of  passion — till  its  gulf  absorbed  the  whole. 

Mid  all  his  folly,  weakness,  guilt,  one  beam 
Across  the  darkness  of  his  being  shone — 
Most  dastardly  and  shameful  did  he  deem 
To  take  one  mite,  that  was  not  all  his  own. 

She  came — at  last  the  kindred  spirit  came, 

The  same  bright  look,  the  same  dissolving  eye ; 

Her  bosom  lit  with  that  ethereal  flame, 

Which  warmed  him,  when  in  youth  his  soul  was  high; 

Informing  and  informed,  their's  was  the  pure 
Delight  of  blended  intellect — their  way 
Was  strewed  with  reason's  choicest  pleasures,  sure 
To  last  with  those  whom  guilt  leads  not  astray. 

Awhile  his  spirit  kindled — hope,  and  love, 
And  friendship,  days  of  peace  and  joy  arose, 
And  lifted  all  his  ardent  thoughts  above 
The  memory  of  his  follies  and  his  woes. 


188 

His  way  had  been  unequal — now  he  soared 
On  rushing  wings,  and  now  he  sunk  in  night ; 
But  then  he  felt  new  life  around  him  poured, 
He  aimed  to  heaven  his  strong  untiring  flight, 

'T  was  but  a  moment — like  the  dying  flash, 
The  soul's  last  sparkle,  ere  its  lights  are  fled  ; 
Then  folly  came,  his  kindling  hopes  to  dash, 
And  hide  his  spirit  with  the  moral  dead 

Too  late — too  late — thou  couldst  not  call  him  back, 
With  all  thy  charms  thou  couldst  not — guilt,  despair, 
So  long  had  dogged  him  in  his  wayward  track, 
They  quenched  the  light  that  once  shone  brightly  there, 

An  outcast,  self-condemned,  he  takes  his  way, 
He  knows  and  cares  not  whither;  he  can  weep 
No  more — his  only  wish  his  head  to  lay 
In  endless  death  and  everlasting  sleep. 

Ah !  who  can  bear  the  self-abhorring  thought 
Of  time,  chance,  talent,  wasted — who  can  think 
Of  friendship,  love,  fame,  science,  gone  to  nought, 
And  not  in  hopeless  desperation  sink. 

Behind  are  summits,  lofty,  pure  and  bright, 
Where  blow  the  life-reviving  gales  of  heaven; 
Below  expand  the  jaws  of  deepest  night, 
And  there  he  falls,  by  power  resistless  driven. 


i89 


The  links  that  bind  to  life  are  torn  away; 
The  hope,  the  assuring  hope  of  better  days, 
Friendship,  that  warms  us  with  a  genial  ray, 
And  love,  that  kindles  with  an  ardent  blaze. 

These  he  has  left,  and  books  have  lost  their  charm; 
The  brightest  sky  is  but  a  veil  of  gloom, 
His  mind,  hand  useless,  where  can  be  the  harm, 
In  drawing  to  his  only  couch,  the  tomb. 

Ye  who  abused,  neglected,  rent,  and  stained 
That  heart,  when  pure  and  tender,  come  and  dwell 
On  these  dark  ruins,  and  by  heaven  arraigned, 
Feel,  as  you  look,  the  scorpion  stings  of  hell. 

But  no — your  cold,  black  bosoms  cannot  feel ; 
Amid  the  rank  weeds,  flowers,  can  never  blow; 
Your  hearts,  encrusted  in  their  case  of  steel, 
No  feelings  of  remorse  or  pity  know. 

Yes,  you  will  say,  poor,  weak  and  childish  boy, 
Infirm  of  purpose,  shook  by  every  sigh, 
A  thing  of  air,  a  light  fantastic  toy — 
What  reck  we,  if  such  shadows  live  or  die. 

But  no — my  life's  blood  calls  aloud  to  Heaven, 

The  arm  of  justice  cannot,  will  not  sleep, 

A  perfect  retribution  shall  be  given, 

And  vengeance  on  your  heads  her  coals  shall  heap. 


190 

Where  minds  like  this  are  ruined  guilt  must  be, 
And  where  guilt  is,  remorse  will  gnaw  the  soul. 
And  every  moment  teem  with  agony, 
And  sleepless  thoughts  in  burning  torrents  roll. 

And  thou — arch  moral-murderer!  hear  my  curse— 
Go — gorge  and  wallow  in  thy  priestly  sty, 
Than  what  thou  art,  I  cannot  wish  thee  worse, 
There  with  thy  kindred  reptiles  crawl  and  die. 


POETRY. 


I  consider  Poetry  in  a  two-fold  view,  as  a  spirit,  and  a  manifestation 
Perhaps  the  poetic  spirit  has  never  been  more  justly  defined,  than 
by  Byron  in  his  Prophecy  of  Dante,  a  creation 

"From  overfeeling  good  or  ill,  an  aim 
At  an  external  life  beyond  our  fate." 

This  spirit  may  be  manifested  by  language,  metrical  or  prose,  by 
declamation,  by  musical  sounds,  by  expression,  by  gesture,  by  mo 
tion,  and  by  imitating  forms,  colours,  and  shades  ;  so  that  literature, 
oratory,  music,  physiognomy,  acting,  and  the  arts  of  painting  and 
sculpture,  may  all  have  their  poetry  ;  but  that  peculiar  spirit,  which 
alone  gives  the  great  life  and  charm  to  all  the  efforts  of  genius^  is 
as  distinct  from  the  measure  and  rhyme  of  poetical  composition,  as 
from  the  scientific  principles  of  drawing  and  perspective. 

THE  world  is  full  of  Poetry — the  air 
Is  living  with  its  spirit;  and  the  waves 
Dance  to  the  music  of  its  melodies, 
And  sparkle  in  its  brightness.     Earth  is  veiled, 
And  mantled  with  its  beauty;  and  the  walls. 
That  close  the  universe,  with  crystal,  in. 
Are  eloquent  with  voices,  that  proclaim 
The  unseen  glories  of  immensity, 


PERCIVALS  POEMS. 

In  harmonies,  too  perfect,  and  too  high, 
For  aught  but  beings  of  celestial  mould, 
And  speak  to  man  in  one  eternal  hymn, 
Unfading  beauty,  and  unyielding  power. 

The  year  leads  round  the  seasons,  in  a  choir 
For  ever  charming,  and  for  ever  new, 
Blending  the  grand,  the  beautiful,  the  gay, 
The  mournful,  and  the  tender,  in  one  strain, 
Which  steals  into  the  heart,  like  sounds,  that  rise 
Far  off,  in  moonlight  evenings,  on  the  shore 
Of  the  wide  ocean  resting  after  storms ; 
Or  tones,  that  wind  around  the  vaulted  roof, 
And  pointed  arches,  and  retiring  aisles 
Of  some  old,  lonely  minster,  where  the  hand, 
Skilful,  and  moved,  with  passionate  love  of  art, 
Plays  o'er  the  higher  keys,  and  bears  aloft 
The  peal  of  bursting  thunder,  and  then  calls, 
By  mellow  touches,  from  the  softer  tubes, 
Voices  of  melting  tenderness,  that  blend 
With  pure  and  gentle  musings,  till  the  soul, 
Commingling  with  the  melody,  is  borne, 
Rapt,  and  dissolved  in  ecstasy,  to  Heaven. 

'T  is  not  the  chime  and  flow  of  words,  that  move 
In  measured  file,  and  metrical  array ; 
'T  is  not  the  union  of  returning  sounds, 
Nor  all  the  pleasing  artifice  of  rhyme, 


And  quantity,  and  accent,  that  can  give 

This  all-pervading  spirit  to  the  ear, 

Or  blend  it  with  the  movings  of  the  soul. 

:Tis  a  mysterious  feeling,  which  combines 

Man  with  the  world  around  him,  in  a  chain 

Woven  of  flowers,  and  dipped  in  sweetness,  till 

He  taste  the  high  communion  of  his  thoughts, 

With  all  existences,  in  earth  and  heaven, 

That  meet  him  in  the  charm  of  grace  and  power. 

T  is  Hot  the  noisy  babbler,  who  displays, 

In  studied  phrase,  and  ornate  epithet, 

And  rounded  period,  poor  and  vapid  thoughts, 

Which  peep  from  out  the  cumbrous  ornaments. 

That  overload  their  littleness.     Its  words     , 

Are  few,  but  deep  and  solemn ;  and  they  break 

Fresh  from  the  fount  of  feeling,  and  are  full 

Of  all  that  passion,  which,  on  Carmel,  fired 

The  holy  prophet,  when  his  lips  were  coals, 

His  language  winged  with  terror,  as  when  bolts 

Leap  from  the  brooding  tempest,  armed  with  wrath, 

Commissioned  to  affright  us,  and  destroy. 

Passion,  when  deep,  is  still — the  glaring  eye 
That  reads  its  enemy  with  glance  of  fire, 
The  lip,  that  curls  and  writhes  in  bitterness, 
The  brow  contracted,  till  its  wrinkles  hide 
The  keen,  fixed  orbs,  that  burn  and  flash  below, 
The  hand  firm  clenched  and  quivering,  and  the  foot 


194  PKRCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

Planted  in  attitude  to  spring,  and  dart 

Its  vengeance,  are  the  language  it  employs. 

So  the  poetic  feeling  needs  no  words 

To  give  it  utterance ;  but  it  swells,  and  glows. 

And  revels  in  the  ecstasies  of  soul, 

And  sits  at  banquet  with  celestial  forms, 

The  beings  of  its  own  creation,  fair, 

And  lovely,  as  e'er  haunted  wood  and  wave, 

When  earth  was  peopled,  in  its  solitudes, 

With  nymph  and  naiad — mighty,  as  the  gods, 

Whose  palace  was  Olympus,  and  the  clouds, 

That  hung,  in  gold  and  flame,  around  its  brow; 

Who  bore,  upon  their  features,  all  that  grand 

And  awful  dignity  of  front,  which  bows 

The  eye  that  gazes  on  the  marble  Jove, 

Who  hurls,  in  wrath,  his  thunder,  and  the  god. 

The  image  of  a  beauty,  so  divine, 

So  masculine,  so  artless,  that  we  seem 

To  share  in  his  intensity  of  joy, 

When,  sure  'as  fate,  the  bounding  arrow  sped, 

And  darted  to  the  scaly  monster's  heart. 

This  spirit  is  the  breath  of  Nature,  blown 
Over  the  sleeping  forms  of  clay,  who  else 
Doze  on  through  life  in  blank  stupidity, 
Till  by  its  blast,  as  by  a  touch  of  fire, 
They  rouse  to  lofty  purpose,  and  send  out, 
In  deeds  of  energy,  the  rage  within. 


Its  seat  is  deeper  in  the  savage  breast, 
Than  in  the  man  of  cities ;  in  the  child, 
Than  in  maturer  bosoms.     Art  may  prune 
Its  rank  and  wild  luxuriance,  and  may  train 
Its  strong  out-breakings,  and  its  vehement  gusts 
To  soft  refinement,  and  amenity; 
But  all  its  energy  has  vanished,  all 
Its  maddening,  and  commanding  spirit  gone. 
And  all  its  tender  touches,  and  its  tones 
Of  soul-dissolving  pathos,  lost  and  hid 
Among  the  measured  notes,  that  move  as  dead 
And  heartless,  as  the  puppets  in  a  show. 


Well  I  remember,  in  my  boyish  days, 

How  deep  the  feeling,  when  my  eye  looked  forth 

On  Nature,  in  her  loveliness,  and  storms. 

How  my  heart  gladdened,  as  the  light  of  spring 

Came  from  the  sun,  with  zephyrs,  and  with  showers., 

Waking  the  earth  to  beauty,  and  the  woods 

To  music,  and  the  atmosphere  to  blow, 

Sweetly  and  calmy,  with  its  breath  of  balm. 

O !  how  I  gazed  upon  the  dazzling  blue 

Of  summer's  Heaven  of  glory,  and  the  waves, 

That  rolled,  in  bending  gold,  o'er  hill  and  plain: 

And  on  the  tempest,  when  it  issued  forth, 

In  folds  of  blackness,  from  the  northern  sky, 

And  stood  above  the  mountains,  silent,  dark. 

Frowning,  and  terrible;  then  sent  abroad 


196 

The  lightning,  as  its  herald,  and  the  peal, 
That  rolled  in  deep,  deep  volleys,  round  the 
The  warning  of  its  coming,  and  the  sound, 
That  ushered  in  its  elemental  war. 
And,  O !  I  stood,  in  breathless  longing  fixed, 
Trembling,  and  yet  not  fearful,  as  the  clouds 
Heaved  their  dark  billows  on  the  roaring  winds. 
That  sent,  from  mountain  top,  and  bending  wood, 
A  long  hoarse  murmur,  like  the  rush  of  waves, 
That  burst,  in  foam  and  fury,  on  the  shore. 

Nor  less  the  swelling  of  my  heart,  when  high 

Rose  the  blue  arch  of  autumn,  cloudless,  pure 

As  nature,  at  her  dawning,  when  she  sprang 

Fresh  from  the  hand  that  wrought  her ;  where  the  eye 

Caught  not  a  speck  upon  the  soft  serene, 

To  slain  its  deep  cerulean,  but  the  cloud, 

That  floated,  like  a  lonely  spirit,  tlit-re, 

White,  as  the  snow  of  Zemla,  or  the  foam, 

That  on  the  mid-sea  tosses,  cinctured  round, 

In  easy  undulations,  with  a  belt 

Woven  of  bright  Apollo's  golden  hair. 

Nor,  wiien  that  arch,  in  winter's  clearest  night. 

Mantled  in  ebon  darkness,  strowed  with  stars 

Its  canopy,  that  seemed  to  swell,  and  swell 

The  higher,  as  I  gazed  upon  it,  till, 

Sphere  after  sphere,  evolving,  on  the  height 

Of  Heaven,  the  everlasting  throne  shone  through. 


197 

In  glory's  effulgence,  and  a  wave, 

Intensely  bright,  rolled,  like  a  fountain,  forth 

Beneath  its  sapphire  pedestal,  and  streamed 

Down  the  long  galaxy,  a  flood  of  snow, 

Bathing  the  heavens  in  light,  the  spring,  that  gushed, 

4 

In  overflowing  richness,  from  the  breast 

Of  all-maternal  nature.     These  I  saw, 

And  felt  to  madness  5  but  my  full  heart  gave 

No  utterance  to  the  ineffable  within. 

Words  were  too  weak ;  they  were  unknown  ;  but  still 

The  feeling  was  most  poignant :  it  has  gone  ; 

And  all  the  deepest  flow  of  sounds,  that  e'er 

Poured,  in  a  torrent  fulness,  from  the  tongue 

Rich  with  the  wealth  of  ancient  bards,  and  stored 

With  all  the  patriarchs  of  British  song 

Hallowed  and  rendered  glorious,  cannot  tell 

Those  feelings,  which  have  died,  to  live  no  more. 

LOVE  OF  STUDY. 

There  are  many  youths,  and  some  men,  who  most  earnestly  devote 
themselves  to  solitary  studies,  from  the  mere  love  of  the  pursuit.  I 
have  here  attempted  to  give  some  of  the  causes  of  a  devotion, 
which  appears  so  unaccountable  to  the  stirring  world. 

AND  wherefore  does  the  student  trim  his  lamp, 
And  watch  his  lonely  taper,  when  the  stars 
Are  holding  their  high  festival  in  Heaven, 
And  worshipping  around  the  midnight  throne  ? 


198  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

And  wherefore  does  he  spend  so  patiently, 
In  deep  and  voiceless  thought,  the  blooming  hours 
Of  youth  andjoyance,  when  the  blood  is  warm, 
And  the  heart  full  of  buoyancy  and  fire  ? 

The  sun  is  on  the  waters,  and  the  air 

Breathes  with  a  stirring  energy;  the  plants 

Expand  their  leaves,  and  swell  their  buds,  and  blow, 

Wooing  the  eye,  and  stealing  on  the  soul 

With  perfume  and  with  beauty — Life  awakes ; 

Its  wings  are  waving,  and  its  fins  at  play 

Glancing  from  out  the  streamlets,  and  the  voice 

Of  love  and  joy  is  warbled  in  the  grove  ; 

And  children  sport  upon  the  springing  turf, 

With  shouts  of  innocent  glee,  and  youth  is  fired 

With  a  diviner  passion,  and  the  eye 

Speaks  deeper  meaning,  and  the  cheek  is  filled, 

At  every  tender  motion  of  the  heart, 

With  purer  flushings;  for  the  boundless  power. 

That  rules  all  living  creatures,  now  has  sway; 

In  man  refined  to  holiness,  a  flame, 

That  purifies  the  heart  it  feeds  upon  : 

And  yet  the  searching  spirit  will  not  blend 

With  this  rejoicing,  these  attractive  charms 

Of  the  glad  season ;  but,  at  wisdom's  shrine, 

Will  draw  pure  draughts  from  her  unfathomed  well. 

And  nurse  the  never-dying  lamp,  that  burns 

Brighter  and  brighter  on,  as  ages  roll. 


199 


He  has  his  pleasures — he  has  his  reward : 
For  there  is  in  the  company  of  books, 
The  living  souls  of  the  departed  sage, 
And  bard,  and  hero ;  there  is  in  the  roll 
Of  eloquence  and  history,  which  speak 
The  deeds  of  early  and  of  better  days; 
In  these,  and  in  the  visions  that  arise 
Sublime  in  midnight  musings,  and  array 
Conceptions  of  the  mighty  and  the  good, 
There  is  an  elevating  influence, 
That  snatches  us  awhile  from  earth,  and  lifts 
The  spirit  in  its  strong  aspirings,  where 
Superior  beings  fill  the  court  of  Heaven. 
And  thus  his  fancy  wanders,  and  has  talk 
With  high  imaginings,  and  pictures  out 
Communion  with  the  worthies  of  old  time : 
And  then  he  listens  in  his  passionate  dreams. 
To  voices  in  the  silent  gloom  of  night, 
As  of  the  blind  Meonian,  when  he  struck 
Wonder  from  out  his  harp-strings,  and  rolled  on 
From  rhapsody  to  rhapsody,  deep  sounds, 
That  imitate  the  ocean's  boundless  roar; 
Or  tones  of  horror,  which  the  drama  spake, 
Reverberated  through  the  hollow  mask, 
Like  sounds  which  rend  the  sepulchres  of  kinge, 
And  tell  of  deeds  of  darkness,  which  the  grave 
Would  burst  its  marble  portals  to  reveal; 
Or  his,  who  latest  in  the  holy  causr 


200  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

Of  freedom,  lifted  to  the  heavens  his  voice, 

Commanding,  and  beseeching,  and,  with  all 

The  fervour  of  his  spirit  poured  abroad, 

Urging  the  sluggish  souls  of  self-made  slaves 

To  emulate  their  fathers,  and  be  free; 

Or  those,  which  in  the  still  and  solemn  shades 

Of  Academus,  from  the  wooing  tongue 

Of  Plato,  charmed  the  youth,  the  man,  the  sage, 

Discoursing  of  the  perfect  and  the  pure, 

The  beautiful  and  holy,  till  the  sound, 

That  played  around  his  eloquent  lips,  became 

The  honey  of  persuasion,  and  was  heard, 

As  oracles  amid  Dodona's  groves. 

With  eye  upturned,  watching  the  many  stars, 

And  ear  in  deep  attention  fixed,  he  sits, 

Communing  with  himself,  and  with  the  world, 

The  universe  around  him,  and  with  all 

The  beings  of  his  memory  and  his  hopes  5 

Till  past  becomes  reality,  and  joys, 

That  beckon  in  the  future,  nearer  draw, 

And  ask  fruition — O !  there  is  a  pure, 

A  hallowed  feeling  in  these  midnight  dreams ; 

They  have  the  light  of  heaven  around  them,  breathe 

The  odour  of  its  sanctity,  and  are 

Those  moments  taken  from  the  sands  of  life, 

Where  guilt  makes  no  intrusion,  but  they  bloom, 

Like  islands  floweriner  on  Arabia's  wild. 

And  there  is  pleasure  in  the  utterance 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

Of  pleasant  images  in  pleasant  words, 
Melting  like  melody  into  the  ear, 
Arid  stealing  on  in  one  continual  flow, 
Unruffled  and  unbroken.     It  is  joy 
Ineffable  to  dwell  upon  the  lines 
That  register  our  feelings,  and  portray, 
In  colours  always  fresh  and  ever  new, 
Emotions  that  were  sanctified,  and  loved, 
As  something  far  too  tender,  and  too  pure, 
For  forms  so  frail  and  fading.     I  have  sat, 
In  days,  when  sensibility  was  young, 
And  the  heart  beat  responsive  to  the  sight, 
The  touch,  and  music  of  the  lovely  one ; 
Yes,  I  have  sat  entranced,  enraptured,  till 
The  spirit  would  have  utterance,  and  words 
Flowed  full  of  hope,  and  love,  and  melody, 
The  erushings  of  an  overburdened  heart 
Drunk  with  enchantment,  bursting  freely  forth, 
Like  fountains  in  the  early  days  of  spring. 


HEAVEN. 

the  following  effusion  may  serve  to  explain  one  of  the  mysteries  of 
mythology — the  location  of  heaven  above  us. 

I  HAD  been  sitting  at  a  feast  of  souls, 

A  banquet  of  pure  spirits,  where  the  thought 

Spuke  on  the  eloquent  tongue,  and  in  the  eye's 


Gay  sparkle,  and  the  ever-changing  play 

Of  feature,  like  the  twinkling  glance  of  waves 

Beneath  the  summer  moonlight.     I  walked  forth; 

It  was  a  night  in  autumn,  and  the  moon 

Was  visible  through  clouds  of  opal,  laced 

With  gold  and  carmine — such  a  silent  night 

As  fairies  love  to  dance  and  revel  in, 

When  winds  are  hushed,  and  leaves  are  still,  and  waves 

Are  sleeping  on  the  waters,  and  the  hum 

And  stir  of  life  reposing.     There  was  spread 

Before  my  sight  a  smooth  and  glossy  bay, 

Mirrored  in  silver  brightness,  and  the  chime 

Of  rippling  waters  on  its  pebbles,  broke 

Alone  the  quietude  that  filled  the  air : 

But  when  the  tremulous  heaving  of  the  deep, 

Far  off,  along  its  sandy  barriers,  rose 

And  faintly  echoed,  as  the  fitful  gust 

Ruffled  the  placid  surface  glassed  below; 

Or,  at  the  call  of  night-birds,  where  they  flew 

And  sported  in  the  sedges,  low  and  sweet, 

Like  swallows  twittering,  or  the  cooing  voice 

Of  ring-doves,  when  they  brood  their  callow  young. 

I  looked  abroad  on  sea  and  mountain,  wild 

And  cultured  field,  and  garden,  and  they  lay, 

Amid  the  stillness  of  the  elements, 

Silent,  and  motionless,  and  beautiful, 

For  mist  and  moonlight  softened  down  their  forms, 

And  covered  them  with  dim  transparency, 


203 


Like  beauty  melting  through  her  Coan  veil ; 

A  wind  rose  from  the  ocean,  as  it  rolled 

Blue  in  the  boundless  distance,  and  it  swept 

The  curtained  clouds  athwart  the  moon,  and  gave 

The  undimmed  azure  of  the  sky  to  light 

And  full  expansion.     There  my  eyes  were  turned, 

And  there  they  found  the  magic  influence, 

Which  bound  them,  like  enchantment,  in  a  trance 

Of  most  exalted  feeling,  and  the  soul 

Was  lifted  from  the  body,  and  became 

A  portion  of  the  purity  and  light 

And  loveliness  of  that  cerulean  dome  : 

And  it  imagined  on  the  mountain  top, 

Now  silvered  with  the  milder  beam  of  night, 

On  the  blue  arch,  and  on  the  rolling  moon, 

Careering  through  the  host  of  stars,  who  seemed 

To  worship  at  her  coming,  and  put  out 

The  brightness  of  their  twinkling,  when  she  moved 

Serenely  and  majestically  by — 

On  these,  and  on  the  snowy  clouds,  that  hung 

Their  curtains  round  the  border  of  the  sky, 

Like  folds  of  silken  tapestry,  it  laid 

A  world  of  tenderness  and  purity, 

The  quiet  habitation  of  the  heart, 

The  resting-place  of  those  impassioned  souls, 

Who  draw  their  inspiration  at  the  founts 

Of  nature,  flowing  from  that  theatre, 

Whose  scene  is  ever  shifting  with  the  play 


204 

Of  seasons,  as  the  year  steals  swiftly  on. 
And  bears  us,  with  its  silent  foot,  away 
To  dissolution;  ardent  souls,  who  love 
The  rude  rock  and  the  frowning  precipice, 
The  winding  valley,  where  it  lies  in  green 
Along  the  bubbling  riv'let,  and  the  plain, 
Parted  in  field  and  meadow,  redolent 
Of  roses  in  the  flowery  days  of  spring  ; 
And  in  the  nights  of  autumn,  of  the  breath 
Of  frosted  clusters,  hung  along  the  vines 
In  blue  and  gushing  festoons,  in  whose  rind 
The  drink  of  souls,  the  nectar  of  the  gods, 
Ripens  beneath  the  warm  unclouded  sky. 

I  looked  upon  this  loveliness,  until 

A  dream  came  o'er  me,  and  the  firmament 

Was  animate,  and  spirits  filled  the  air, 

Floating  on  snowy  wings,  and  rustled  by, 

Fanning  the  wind  to  coolness;  and  they  came 

On  messages  of  kindness,  and  they  sought 

The  pillow  of  o'er-wearied  toil,  and  shook 

The  dews  of  Lethe  from  their  dripping  plumes 

Around  his  temples,  till  his  mind  forgot 

Its  sad  realities,  and  happy  dreams 

Rose  fair  and  sweet  around  him,  and  restored 

Awhile  the  spotless  hours  of  infancy, 

When  life  is  one  enchantment!    Then  I  seemed 

Rapt  in  a  trance  of  ecstasy,  and  forms 


205 


Stood  thronging  round  supremely  beautiful, 

Whose  looks  were  full  of  tenderness,  whose  words 

Were  glances,  and  whose  melodies  were  smiles; 

Who  uttered  forth  the  feelings  of  the  soul 

In  that  expressive  dialect,  whose  tones 

No  tongue  can  syllable,  the  unseen  chain, 

Which  links  those  hearts  that  beat  in  unison. 

It  was  that  perfect  meeting,  whither  tend 

Our  spirits  in  their  better  hours,  and  find 

The  balm  of  wounded  bosoms,  where  they  dream 

The  eye  of  mercy  ever  smiles,  and  peace 

For  ever  broods — they  call  the  vision  Heaven. 

And  thus  hath  man  imagined  he  can  find 

The  region  of  his  angels,  and  his  gods, 

And  blessed  spirits,  somewhere  in  the  sky; 

Or  in  the  moon,  to  which  the  Indian  turns, 

And  dreams  it  is  a  cool  and  quiet  land, 

Where  insect  cannot  sting,  nor  tiger  prowl; 

Or  on  the  cone  of  mountains,  where  the  snow. 

Purest  of  all  material  things,  is  laid 

Upon  a  cloudy  pillow,  wreathed  around 

The  midway  height,  and  parting  from  this  world 

Olympus  and  the  Swerga's  holy  bowers. 


A  PICTURE. 


THERE  is  a  fountain  of  the  purest  wave — 
It  ever  floweth  full  and  freshly  on, 
Laughing  beneath  the  fairest  light  of  heaven, 
And  chiming,  like  the  tender  voice  of  birds, 
Within  a  dewy  thicket,  when  the  morn 
Comes  forth  in  beauty,  and  the  winds  awake 
To  sip  the  moisture  in  the  lily's  bell. 

The  spring  is  hidden  in  a  silent  cave, 
The  shrine  of  darkness,  and  of  loneliness, 
And  then  it  stealeth  out  to  meet  the  sun, 
And  shine  beneath  his  brightness,  and  reveal 
The  crystal  of  its  purity,  and  play, 
In  dove-like  undulations,  with  the  airs 
That  gently  come  and  kiss  it,  with  a  breath 
Perfumed  among  the  roses,  till  they  lend 
A  sweetness  to  the  waters,  like  the  rills 
That  spout  from  marble  wells  in  Asian  bowers. 

And  where  it  cometh  forth  to  meet  the  light, 
The  rock  is  tapestried  in  mossy  green. 


* 
207 

For  ever  freshening  with  the  sprinkled  dews, 

And  always  young  in  verdure,  as  when  Spring 

Throws  her  new  mantle  o'er  the  turf,  until 

The  eye  reposes  on  it,  as  a  balm, 

That,  with  its  tender  soothings,  wins  the  heart 

To  thoughts  of  purity  and  gentleness  ; 

For  there  is  in  the  sight  of  fairy  forms, 

And  mellow  tinctures,  and  dissolving  shades, 

And  in  the  sound  of  rustling  leaves,  and  waves, 

That  murmur  into  slumber,  and  of  birds 

Saluting,  with  their  cheery  notes,  the  dawn, 

And  pouring  out  the  loneliness  of  heart, 

A  rifled  mother  feels,  when  o'er  her  nest 

She  sits,  and  sees  her  young  ones  stolen  away — • 

And  in  the  scent  of  gardens,  and  young  vines, 

And  violet  beds  along  the  meadow  brooks, 

There  is  a  sweet  attraction,  which  doth  blend 

The  spirit  with  the  life  of  outward  things, 

And  it  partaketh  then  in  all  the  joy 

Of  Nature,  when  she  riseth  from  her  sleep, 

And  throweth  out  her  vigour  to  the  winds. 

And  boundeth  in  her  ecstasy,  as  fawns 

Leap  in  the  very  wantonness  of  heart, 

When  life  is  all  exuberance  and  fire. 

It  floweth  on  embanked  in  freshest  turf. 
Bending  its  margin  low  to  meet  the  clear, 
Cool  element,  and  slake  its  thirst  therein, 
And  bathe  its  roots,  like  silken  threads,  that  play 


Waving  and  streaming  with  the  current's  fall, 
Its  flow  is  over  pebbles  and  brierht  sands, 
Which,  from  the  curling  waters  flashing  out, 
Inlay  the  channel  with  mosaic,  where 
The  white  flint  shines  like  pearl,  the  agate  glows 
With  playful  tints,  dove-like  or  pavonine, 
Catching  new  splendour  from  the  wave ;  the  while 
Smooth-rounded  stones,  deep  blue  and  ebony, 
And  slaty  flakes  of  red  and  russet-brown, 
Lie  darker  in  their  brightness,  as  when  gems 
Sparkle  from  out  the  chilly  night  of  caves. 

Above  it  elms  and  poplars — trees  that  love 
The  bank  of  meadow  brooks  :  those  with  their  limbs 
Light-arching  in  a  platted  canopy ; 
These  rising  in  a  pyramid  of  boughs, 
And  glancing  with  their  many  twinkling  leaves, 
Bright  in  their  varnished  verdure,  when  they  drink 
The  pure  lierht  in  their  stillness ;  when  at  play, 
Chequered  with  freshest  green  and  snowy  down. 
Beside  them  willows  droop  to  kiss  the  wave, 
That  calmly  crinkles  by  them,  and  they  dip 
Their  waving  twigs,  so  that  their  silken  leaves 
Ruffle  the  water  to  a  circling  curl, 
Widening  and  lessening  to  the  turfy  shore. 
From  out  its  bosom  islets  lift  their  tufts 
Of  alder  and  of  sedges,  where  the  wind 
Plays  through  the  pointed  blades,  and  murmuring  lulls 
The  dreamer,  who  reposes  on  the  brink. 


209 

And  gases  on  the  ever-changing  play 

Of  bubble  and  of  ripple,  of  light  plumes 

Moving  like  pigmy  vessels,  as  the  breath 

Of  summer  fills  their  fan-like  sail,  and  throws 

A  sudden  dimple  o'er  the  mirror 'd  stream. 

Flowers  too  are  on  its  borders ;  flags  in  blue 

Carpet  the  hollow,  roses  on  the  knoll 

Open  their  clustered  crimson,  cardinals 

Lift,  on  the  shady  margin,  spikes  of  fire, 

And  one,*  whose  feathered  stem,  and  starry  bloom 

Of  glossy  yellow,  wafted  in  the  flow, 

Floats,  like  a  sleeping  Naiad,  on  the  wave. 


MENTAL  BEAUTY. 

H  Jf^ft., 

bellesse 

Piu  ch'n  guisa  mortal  soavi  e  litte. PETRARCA. 

BEAUTY  has  gone,  but  yet  her  mind  is  still 
As  beautiful  as  ever ;  still  the  play 
Of  light  around  her  lips  has  every  charm 
Of  childhood  in  its  freshness  :  Love  has  there 
Stamped  his  unfading  impress,  and  the  hues  \ 
Of  fancy  shine  around  her,  as  the  Sun 
Gilds  at  his  setting  some  decaying  tower, 
With  feathered  moss  and  ivy  overgrown. 
I  knew  her  in  the  dawning  of  her  charms, 

*  Ranunculus  fluitans. 
27 


210 


PERCIVAL  S  POEMS. 


When  the  new  rose  first  opened,  and  its  sweets 

No  wind  had  wasted.     She  was  of  those  forms 

Apelles  might  have  painted  for  the  Queen 

Of  loveliness  and  love — light  as  the  fays 

Dancing  on  glimmering  dew-drops,  when  the  mooii 

Rides  in  her  silver  softness,  and  the  world 

Is  calm  and  brightly  beautiful  below. 

She  was  all  mildness,  and  the  melting  tone 

Of  her  sweet  voice  thrilled  me,  and  seemed  to  flow 

Into  my  soul,  a  stream  of  melody, 

Delicious  in  its  mellowness ;   it  spake 

A  heart  at  ease — and  then  the  quiet  smile 

Sat  playing  on  her  lips,  that  pouting,  spread, 

Their  vermil  freshness  forth,  as  if  to  ask 

The  kiss  of  him  she  smiled  on.     In  her  eye 

Gentleness  had  its  dwelling,  and  light  Mirth 

Glanced  out  in  sudden  flashes,  and  keen  Wit 

Shot  arrows  which  delighted,  while  they  stung. 

She  was  a  young  Medusa,  ere  she  knew 

The  evil  of  a  world  that  watched  to  blast 

Her  loveliness,  and  make  it  terrible  ; 

Striking  a  dead  cold  horror  on  the  heart 

Of  him,  who  saw  the  fairest  of  all  things, 

A  lovely  woman,  made  the  common  prey 

Of  lawless  passion — but  it  touched  not  HER  : 

No  mist  breathed  o'er  her  brightness ;  but  the  pure 

Full  light  of  virtue  rested  there,  and  shed 

New  lustre  on  the  light  that  ever  came 


211 

Through  her  transparent  features,  and  revealed 
Each  movement  of  the  soul  that  swelled  within  : 
And  they  were  all  of  Heaven — such  high  desires 
As  angels  had  been  proud  of — pure  as  light 
In  its  primeval  fountain,  ere  it  flowed 
To  mingle  with  the  elements,  and  lose 
Its  perfect  clearness.     She  was  as  a  flower 
New  opened  in  a  valley,  where  no  foot 
Had  trodden,  and  no  living  thing  had  left 
Print  of  the  world's  pollution  :  there  she  blew 
Fragrant  and  lovely,  and  a  parent's  hand 
Shielded  her  from  the  winds  that  blast,  or  bring 
Poison  upon  their  wings,  and  taint  the  heart 
Left  open  to  their  influence.     Shielded  there 
She  ripened  all  her  treasures,  and  became 
Full-blown  and  rich  in  her  maturity-— 
The  dwelling  of  a  spirit,  not  of  earth, 
But  ever  mingling  with  the  pure  and  high 
Conceptions  of  a  soul  that  spreads  its  wings 
To  fly  where  Mind,  when  boldest,  dared  to  soar. 
And  though  the  form  has  withered,  and  the  bloom 
Has  faded,  she  is  lovely ;  for  the  sounds 
That  issue  from  her  lips,  and  flow  around 
In  liquid  eloquence,  are  oracles 
Of  more  than  ancient  wisdom,  or  they  speak 
Portions  of  that  full  hymn  of  Poesy, 
Which  ever  rises  when  a  mind  on  fire 
Blends  with  the  majesty  of  outward  things  ; 


212 

And  with  the  glories  of  a  boundless  Heaven, 
And  a  rich  earth,  and  ever-rolling  sea 
Communing,  swells  to  that  ineffable 
Fruition,  which  in  hope  will  never  end. 


MENTAL  HARMONY. 

Animtt  dimidium  meet  — — Horat. 

WE  have  had  pleasant  hours,  but  they  are  gone ; 

And  we  shall  never  meet  again,  to  spend 

Glad  moments  in  the  kindly  intercourse 

Of  blended  thought  and  feeling ;  they  are  gone. 

Those  festivals  of  fancy  and  of  hope, 

Those  may-days  of  the  spirit,  when  the  voice 

Of  nature  had  a  sweetness  wholly  new 

And  most  delightful  to  me,  and  the  form 

And  fashion  of  all  creatures  took  a  tint 

From  the  fair  light  within  me;  when  we  gave 

Days  to  such  higher  thoughts,  as  lend  to  life 

A  swifter  pinion,  that  the  flow  of  hours 

Be  as  the  falling  of  a  quiet  stream, 

Whose  current  has  no  sound  or  sign  to  tel) 

It  hath  an  onward  motion,  and  the  sun 

Go  to  his  setting,  and  we  know  it  not, 

Time  steals  on  such  a  silent  wing  away. 

There  is  a  holy  feeling  in  the  trance 
Of  thought  j  it  is  a  calm  and  quiet  sense 


Of  purer  being ;  we  have  known  such  hours, 

And  they  shall  be  remembered.     Who  would  lose 

The  memory  of  our  blessings,  and  the  light, 

The  recollection  of  departed  days 

Of  a  serener  pleasure,  and  a  deep 

And  happy  friendship,  tranquillized  and  raised 

To  more  exalted  union,  such  as  bound 

Two  intellects  in  elder  time,  who  loved 

To  meet  in  fond  endearment,  and  to  lend 

In  mutual  talk  their  fullest  thoughts — the  light, 

Such  recollection  pours  into  the  heart, 

Till  we  are  circled  with  a  hallowed  sphere 

Of  bright  emotions,  who  would  lose,  one  day, 

Remembrances  so  gracious,  for  the  wild 

Mad  tempest  of  ambition,  or  the  gay 

And  glittering  dance  of  pleasure,  or  the  pomp 

The  rich  man  piles  around  him.     I  could  walk, 

r  t 

At  the  pale  hour  of  twilight,  on  the  path 

The  willow-tree  o'ershadows,  by  the  brink 

Of  a  small  run  of  water,  and  be  wrapped 

In  a  deep  loneliness,  and  yet  find  more 

That  has  in  it  an  ecstasy,  in  thoughts 

Cast  back  upon  the  quick  hours  we  have  known 

In  our  long  woodland  wanderings,  and  the  sights 

That  we  have  mutely  gazed  on,  spread  o'er  hill, 

And  plain,  and  sheeted  ocean,  than  in  all 

Hope  ever  promised  to  my  ardent  youth 

In  the  bright  path  of  honour,  or  the  way 


214 


That  winds  through  roses,  sweetly  leading  on 
Its  eager  victim  to  the  Bower  of  Love. 

Nature  hath  lent  us  with  a  bounteous  hand, 
Wherewith  to  make  us  happy,  and  if  we 
Take  not  the  kindly  offer,  't  is  the  fault 
Of  our  perverted  hearts,  which  cannot  find 
Beaut}'  is  what  is  open  unto  all. 
I  have  resolved  within  me,  that  the  still 
And  pure  possession  of  my  own  free  thoughts 
Surpasses  earthly  treasures,  and  is  life 
Heightened  to  a  superior  essence ;  hence 
The  wild  woods  are  my  chosen  haunt,  and  there 
I  read  a  fairer  tome,  a  richer  page, 
Than  pen  of  man  has  traced  with  characters 
Of  reason  or  of  fancy.     I  become, 
In  the  society  of  untaught  things, 
Drawn  from  my  duller  and  my  grosser  sense. 
And  lifted  in  my  longings,  and  I  learn 
How  little  there  is  great  in  the  pursuit 
Of  riches  or  of  honour,  how  the  mind, 
Let  in  the  channel  of  heroic  thought 
To  flow  in  freedom  onward,  and  pervade 
The  purer  regions  of  philosophy, 
And  tasteful  and  impassioned  poesy — 
How  mind  alone  is  the  true  worth  of  man, 
And  that  which  raises  him  above  the  sense 
Of  meaner  creatures,  and  permits  a  hope 
Of  unembodied  being,  in  a  high 


PERCIVAL  S    POEMS. 

And  holy  dwelling,  lifted  far  above 
The  reach  of  tempest,  with  essential  light 
Encircled,  and  with  fairest  wings  of  love 
O'ershadowed,  the  reward  and  resting  place 
Of  such  as  hold  their  journey  patiently, 
And  pause  and  faint  not  on  their  weary  way. 

The  recollection  of  one  upward  hour 
Hath  more  in  it  to  tranquillize  and  cheer 
The  darkness  of  despondency,  than  years 
Of  gaiety  and  pleasure.     Then,  alone 
We  wander  not  in   solitude,  but  find 
Friends  in  all  things  around  us,  for  the  heart 
Sinks  not,  and  in  its  sinking  bends  the  mind 
From  its  true  lofty  region,  where  it  lives 
Rejoicing  in  bright  energy ;  and  so 
All  things  are  open  to  the  searching  eye 
Of  an  unclouded  intellect,  and  bring 
Their  several  treasures  to  it,  and  unfold 
Their  fabric  to  its  scrutiny.     All  life, 
And  all  inferior  orders,  in  the  waste 
Of  being  spread  before  us,  are  to  him, 
Who  lives  in  meditation,  and  the  search 
Of  wisdom  and  of  beauty,  open  books, 
Wherein  he  reads  the  Godhead,  and  the  ways 
He  works  through  his  creation,  and  the  links 
That  fasten  us  to  all  things,  with  a  sense 
Of  fellowship  and  feeling,  so  that  we 
Look  not  upon  a  cloud,  or  falling  leaf, 


PERCIVAL'S  POEM&. 

Or  flower  new  blown,  or  human  face  divine, 
But  we  have  caught  new  life,  and  wider  thrown 
The  door  of  reason  open,  and  have  stored 
In  memory's  secret  chamber,  for  dark  years 
Of  age  and  weariness,  the  food  of  thought, 
And  thus  extended  mind,  and  made  it  young, 
When  the  thin  hair  turns  gray,  and  feeling  dies. 

But  this  communion  with  inferior  things 
Still  leaves  a  void  behind  it,  and  we  seek 
The  kindred  thoughts  of  other  men,  and  bend 
Attentive  o'er  their  written  souls,  wherein 
We  see  their  better  moments,  when  they  cast 
The  slough  of  earth  aside,  and  tried  a  flight 
On  an  ascending  pinion,  and  renewed 
Their  purer  being,  as  the  insect  bursts 

The  walls  that  bound  it  in  its  second  state — 

t 
It  might  be  a  gilded  prison-house; 

But  yet  it  was  a  prison  :  When  its  wing 

Unfolded,  and  it  knew  the  bliss  of  air, 

And  free  and  rapid  motion,  it  had  life, 

And  floated  as  a  spirit  floats  away, 

And  wandered  gayly  on  from  flower  to  flower, 

And  was  so  light  aud  so  ethereal,  Man 

Selected  it  the  symbol  of  the  soul, 

And  its  free  flight  through  ether  on  a  wing, 

That,  moving  through  eternity,  will  ever 

Be  active  and  unwearied,  and  as  bright 

In  its  unruffled  plumage,  after  years 


217 


Have  gathered  into  ages,  and  have  gone 
Beyond  the  eldest  memory  of  time. 

But  yet  the  pen  of  Genius  cannot  cheer 
And  heighten,  like  the  spirit-speaking  eye  ; 
And  so  we  seek  the  living,  and  we  find 
That  there  are  spirits  that  commune  with  ours, 
As  if  they  were  our  kindred,  and  were  formed 
In  the  same  mould ;  and  when  we  meet  with  them, 
We  cling  with  child-like  fondness,  as  if  life 
Had  not  a  charm  without  them,  and  the  sky 
With  its  ethereal  beauty,  and  the  earth 
Flowering  or  fading,  and  the  fairest  flow 
Of  pure  and  tranquil  waters,  and  the  words 
Of  the  departed  with  their  might  of  thought, 
Could  be  to  us  no  solace,  and  have  power 
To  lend  no  high  conception,  nor  subdue 
The  spirit  unto  meekness  ;  so  we  lean 
On  an  accordant  bosom,  and  we  love 
The  beating  of  a  heart,  that  beats  as  ours, 
The  speaking  of  an  eye,  that  tells  us  thoughts 
Which  harmonize  with  what  we  feel,  and  all 
The  light  of  beauty,  passion,  tenderness, 
And  purity,  and  love  of  great,  and  fair, 
And  fitly  fashioned  things,  until  we  deem 
A  sole  existence  is  a  wilderness, 
That  yieldeth  only  terror,  and  a  curse. 

We  two  have  met  a  little  while,  and  known 

How  time  may  glide  unnoticed,  in  the  flow 

28 


Of  thoughts  that  have  a  sympathy ;  we  part, 
But  this  shall  be  a  token,  thou  hast  been 
A  friend  to  him  who  traced  these  hurried  lines, 
And  gave  them  as  a  tribute  to  a  friend, 
And  a  remembrance  of  the  few  kind  hours 
Which  lightened  on  the  darkness  of  my  path, 
And  gave  a  pleasantness  to  some  bright  days, 
Bright  in  the  light  thou  gavest  them,  and  warmed 
Feelings,  that  sank  in  chilliness,  and  waked 
My  fancy  from  its  slumber,  and  thus  drew 
One  volume  from  its  treasures,  into  day. 


RUINS. 


Tempus  edax  rerum,  tuque,  invidiosa  vetustas, 
Omnia  destruitis  : OVID. 


EARTH  is  a  waste  of  ruins  ;  so  I  deemed, 
When  the  broad  sun  was  sinking  in  the  sea 
Of  sand,  that  rolled  around  Palmyra.     Night 
Shared  with  the  dying  day  a  lonely  sky, 
The  canopy  of  regions  void  of  life, 
And  still  as  one  interminable  tomb. 
The  shadows  gathered  on  the  desert,  dark 
And  darker,  till  alone  one  purple  arch 
Marked  the  far  place  of  setting.     All  above 
Was  purely  azure,  for  no  moon  in  heaven 
Walked  in  her  brightness,  and  with  snowy  light 
Softened  the  deep  intensity,  that  gave 


Such  awe  unto  the  blue  serenity 

Of  the  high  throne  of  gods,  the  dwelling-place 

Of  suns  and  stars,  which  are  to  us  as  gods, 

The  fountains  of  existence  and  the  seat 

Of  all  we  dream  of  glory.     Dim  and  vast 

The  ruins  stood  around  me — temples,  fanes, 

Where  the  bright  sun  was  worshipped,  where  they  gave 

Homage  to  him,  who  frowns  in  storms,  and  rolls 

The  desert  like  an  ocean,  where  they  bowed 

Unto  the  queen  of  beauty,  she  in  heaven, 

Who  gives  the  night  its  loveliness,  and  smiles 

Serenely  on  the  drifted  waste,  and  lends 

A  silver  softness  to  the  ridgy  wave, 

Where  the  dark  Arab  sojourns,  and  with  tales 

Of  love  and  beauty  wears  the  tranquil  night 

In  poetry  away ;  her  light  the  while 

Falling  upon  him,  as  a  spirit  falls, 

Dove-like  or  curling  down  in  flame,  a  star 

Sparkling  amid  his  flowing  locks,  or  dews 

That  melt  in  gold,  and  steal  into  the  heart, 

Making  it  one  enthusiastic  glow, 

As  if  the  God  were  present,  and  his  voice 

Spake  on  the  eloquent  lips,  that  pour  abroad 

A  gush  of  inspiration — bright  as  waves 

Swelling  around  Aurora's  car,  intense 

With  passion  as  the  fire  that  ever  flows 

Jn  fountains  on  the  Caspian  shore,  and  full 

As  the  wide-rolling  majesty  of  Nile. 


220 

Over  these  temples  of  an  age  of  wild 
And  dark  belief,  and  yet  magnificent 
In  all  that  strikes  the  senses — beautiful 
In  the  fair  forms  they  knelt  to,  and  the  domes 
And  pillars  which  upreared  them — full  of  life 
In  their  poetic  festivals,  when  youth 
Gave  loose  to  all  its  energy,  in  dance, 
And  song,  and  every  charm  the  fancy  weaves 
In  the  soft  twine  of  cultur'd  speech,  attuned 
In  perfect  concord  to  the  full-toned  lyre : 
When  nations  gathered  to  behold  the  pomp 
That  issued  from  the  hallowed  shrine  in  choirs 
Of  youths,  who  bounded  to  the  minstrelsy 
Of  tender  voices,  and  all  instruments 
Of  ancient  harmony,  in  solemn  trains 
Bearing  the  votive  offerings,  flowing  horns 
Of  plenty  wreathed  with  flowers,  and  gushing  o'er 
With  the  ripe  clusters  of  the  purple  vine, 
The  violet  of  the  fig,  the  scarlet  flush 
Of  granates  peeping  from  the  parted  rind, 
The  citron  shining  through  its  glossy  leaves 
In  burnished  gold,  the  carmine  veiled  in  down, 
Like  mountain  snow,  on  which  the  living  stream 
Flowed  from  Astarte's  minion,  all  that  hang 
In  eastern  gardens  blended — while  the  sheaf 
Nods  with  its  loaded  ears,  and  brimming  bowk 
Foam  with  the  kindling  element,  the  joy 
Of  banquet,  and  the  nectar  that  inspires 


fcf 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

Man  with  the  glories  of  a  heightened  power 
To  feel  the  touch  of  beauty,  and  combine 
The  scattered  forms  of  elegance,  till  high 
Rises  a  magic  vision,  blending  all 
That  we  have  seen  of  glory,  such  as  drew 
Assembled  Greece  to  worship,  when  the  form. 
Who  gathered  all  its  loveliness,  arose 
Dewy  and  blushing  from  the  parent  foam, 
Than  which  her  tint  was  fairer,  and  with  hand 
That  seemed  of  living  marble,  parted  back 
Her  raven  locks,  and  upward  looked  to  Heaven, 
Smiling  to  see  all  Nature  bright  and  calm. 
Over  these  temples,  whose  long  colonnades 
Are  parted  by  the  hand  of  time,  and  fall 
Pillar  by  pillar,  block  by  block,  and  strow 
The  ground  in  shapeless  ruin,  night  descends 
Unmingled,  and  the  many  stars  shoot  through 
The  gaps  of  broken  walls,  and  glance  between 
The  shafts  of  tottering  columns,  marking  out 
Obscurely,  on  the  dark  blue  sky,  the  form 
Of  Desolation,  who  hath  made  these  piles 
Her  home,  and  sitting  with  her  folded  wings,. 
Wraps  in  her  dusty  robe  the  skeletons 
Of  a  once  countless  multitude,  whose  toil 
Reared  palaces  and  theatres,  and  brought 
All  the  fair  forms  of  Grecian  art,  to  give 
Glory  unto  an  island,  girt  with  sands 
As  barren  as  the  ocean,  where  the  grave 


222 

And  stately  Doric  marked  the  solemn  fane 
Where  wisdom  dwelt,  and  on  the  fairer  shrine 
Of  beauty  sprang  the  light  Ionian  wreathed 
With  a  soft  volute,  whose  simplicity 
Becomes  the  deity  of  loveliness, 
Who  with  her  snowy  mantle,  and  her  zone 
Woven  with  all  attractions,  and  her  locks 
Flowing  as  Nature  bade  them  flow,  compels 
The  sterner  Powers  to  hang  upon  her  smiles. 
And  there  the  grand  Corinthian  lifted  high 
Its  flowery  capital,  to  crown  the  porch, 
Where  sat  the  sovereign  of  their  hierarchy, 
The  monarch  armed  with  terror,  whose  curled  locks 
Shaded  a  brow  of  thought  and  firm  resolve, 
Whose  eye,  deep  sunk,  shot  out  it    central  fires, 
To  blast  and  wither  all  who  dared  confront 
The  gaze  of  highest  power ;  so  sat  their  kings 
Enshrined  in  palaces,  and  when  they  came 
Thundering  on  their  triumphal  cars,  all  bright 
With  diadem  of  gold,  and  purple  robe 
Flashing  with  gems,  before  their  rushing  train 
Moving  in  serried  columns  fenced  in  steel, 
The  herd  of  slaves  obsequious  sought  the  dust, 
And  gazed  not  as  the  mystic  pomp  rolled  by. 
Such  were  thy  monarchs,  Tadmor  !  now  thy  streets 
Are  silent,  and  thy  walls  o'erthrown,  no  voice 
Speaks  through  the  long  dim  night  of  years,  to  tell 
These  were  once  peopled  dwellings  ;  I  could  dream 


Some  sorcerer  in  his  moon-light  wanderings,  reared 
These  wonders  in  an  hour  of  sport,  to  mock 
The  stranger  with  the  show  of  life,  and  send 
Thought  through  the  mist  of  ages,  in  the  search 
Of  nations  who  are  now  no  more,  who  lived 
Erst  in  the  pride  of  empire,  ruled  and  swayed 
Millions  in  their  supremacy,  and  toiled 
To  pile  these  monuments  of  wealth  and  skill, 
That  here  the  wandering  tribe  might  pitch  its  tents 
Securer  in  their  empty  courts,  and  we, 
Who  have  the  sense  of  greatness,  low  might  kneel 
To  ancient  mind,  and  gather  from  the  torn 
And  scattered  fragments,  visions  of  the  power. 
And  splendour,  and  sublimity  of  old, 
Mocking  the  grandest  canopy  of  Heaven, 
And  imaging  the  pomp  of  Gods  below. 


MARIA, 

THE   VILLAGE    GIRL, 

Nature,  is  fine  in  love  ;  and  where  7  is  fine. 
It  sends  some  precious  instance  of  itself 
After  the  thing  it  loves. HAMLET. 

I  KNEW  a  pleasant  village,  in  a  lone 
And  silent  valley,  on  the  southern  side 
Of  a  long  line  of  mountains,  whence  a  brook 
Came  gently  down,  and  in  its  winding  flow 


224 


Stole  through  a  pansied  meadow,  where  a  bank 

Of  beeches  lifted  up  its  tufted  slope 

To  the  warm  sun  of  April,  as  it  shone 

Tenderly  from  a  hemisphere  of  blue, 

Purer,  because  the  earth  sent  rarer  forth 

Its  dimming  exhalations,  on  whose  boughs 

Yet  hung  the  leaves  of  winter,  with  a  low 

And  plaintive  rustling,  telling  to  the  winds 

A  sweet  ^Eolian  tale,  and  shining  out 

In  glossy  twinkling,  as  they  lightly  turned 

Their  surface  to  the  light,  and  then  veered  back 

With  a  quick-glancing  motion ;  in  a  bend 

Of  that  close  thicket,  where  the  mountain  gust. 

Came  not,  but  all  was  tranquil,  and  the  turf 

Was  deeper  greened,  and  the  new  opened  flowers 

Spread  bolder  out  their  tender  leaves,  and  sent 

Soft  odours  on  the  mellow  air,  that  played 

Silently  in  that  hollow,  where  the  quail 

Sat  often  in  the  clear  warm  noon,  and  turned 

Her  red  eye  to  the  silver  light,  and  shook 

The  dropped  leaves  in  her  playfulness ;  one  day. 

When  all  was  purely  fair,  and  the  chill  winds 

Were  hushed  aloft,  and  as  I  upwards  gazed, 

The  frosted  fir,  the  pendent  pine,  and  all 

The  sable  groves  of  cedar,  stood  as  still, 

As  when  a  wood  of  lances  wait  the  breath 

Of  the  shrill  horn  and  braying  clarion, 

To  sink  upon  the  line  of  fight,  and  rush 


Forward  to  meet  in  conflict — such  a  day, 
When  the  young  sod  first  quickens,  and  the  pale 
Blue  eyes  of  weeping  violets  part  their  lids 
To  drink  the  first  warm  rays,  I  chanced  to  bend 
My  wandering  foot  along  the  grassy  brink 
Of  the  calm-flowing  brooklet,  pleased  to  take 
With  a  quick  eye  its  many  turns,  and  dwell 
On  the  clear  dashing  of  its  water-falls, 
And  the  soft  gliding  of  its  molten  gold, 
Where  the  sun  met  it  curving  o'er  a  root 
That  grew  across  its  channel,  or  the  curls, 
That  like  a  pigeon's  plumage  waving  played 
Over  the  sandy  shallow,  or  the  still 
And  tranquil  mirror  where  it  rested  deep 
And  dark  beneath  a  willow-i  -as  I  stood 
Looking  aside  upon  the  velvet  vest 
Of  the  fresh-springing  meadow,  and  above 
Where  the  bent  birches  hung  their  tufted  flowers, 
New  purpling  like  a  silken  shred,  and  faint 
The  scarlet  maple  buds  put  out,  and  fair 
The  downy  willow  catkins  specked  with  gold 
Their  flaxen  locks,  when  life  awoke  within 
The  leaf-buds  of  the  forest,  then  I  caught 
In  that  still  nook,  a  pale  and  lovely  girl, 
With  a  fair  hand  fondling  a  petted  lamb, 
That  bounded  light  around  her,  and  with  long 
And  oft  repeated  fondness  licked  her  hand, 
And  then  renewed  its  gambols,  though  it  took 


Short  turns,  because  a  cord  of  braided  bluer 
The  colour  of  a  dove-  wing,  or  the  sky, 
When  a  full  moon  shines  over  it,  drew  back 
Her  minion  to  a  narrow  circle,  for 
She  thus  had  bound  it  in  a  silken  chain, 
As  if  it  were  a  loved  one,  who  would  fly 
To  other  lands,  and  leave  her  here  to  sing 
Her  sad  notes  to  the  evening  wind,  and  tell 
Her  hours  in  weeping  loneliness,  and  look 
Where  the  far  path  came  o'er  the  hill  to  catch 
Her  long  departed  lover,  till  the  night 
Hid  the  low  vale  in  darkness,  and  her  eye 
Turned  from  the  fruitless  quest,  and  then  she  wept 
Tenderly,  and  her  sweet  voice  took  a  tone, 
In  which  despair  was  uttered,  till  it  sunk 
Trembling  and  fainting,  as  the  night  wind  falls 
Softer  along  the  harp  strings,  till  a  sound 
Just  whispers  through  the  air,  and  all  is  still. 

There  was  a  look  of  calmness  in  her  thin 
And  delicate  features,  wasted  to  a  shade, 
Like  a  pure  spirit  musing  on  the  dark 
And  sad  afflictions  of  this  life  below, 
And  dwelling  for  a  moment  on  the  grief 
And  sickness  of  the  better  few,  who  trust 
In  their  most  hopeless  hours,  they  yet  shall  find 
A  sunshine  after  darkness,  and  a  calm 
After  the  tempest  ceaseth,  when  the  eye 
Of  love  shall  rest  forever  on  the  friends 
They  late  have  seen  departing  on  their  long 


t 

PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  227 

And  unreturning  journey,  whose  cold  lids 
They  closed  with  pious  care,  whose  stiffened  limbs 
They  laid  in  decent  order,  and  composed 
Their  pale  lips  to  a  sweet  and  dying  smile, 
And  shrouded  all  in  whitest  lawn,  than  which 
No  flaky  snow  falls  purer,  and  no  curl 
Catches  a  softer  tincture  from  the  moon, 
To  throw  a  thin  veil  o'er  the  stars,  and  dim 
Their  brightness  to  a  faint  and  mellow  ray, 
Like  a  lone  taper  through  a  curtain,  when 
Sleep  broods  above  the  hamlet,  and  the  sound 
Of  life  is  hushed,  and  this  alone  reveals 
To  him  who  walks  in  darkness,  that  two  hearts 
•Are  pouring  out  their  fulness,  or  a  voice, 
In  the  low  consecrated  tone  of  prayer, 
Is  talking  with  the  Universal  soul, 
And  blending  with  the  perfect  purity 
And  majesty  of  Godhead,  or  an  eye 
Is  watching  o'er  the  page  of  lofty  thought. 
And  catching  inspiration  at  the  shrine 
Of  intellect  and  fancy,  till  the  heart, 
Big  with  its  high  conceptions,  overflows, 
And  then  his  lips  pour  out  the  eloquence 
Of  kindled  spirit,  and  a  purer  stream 
Of  language,  musical,  and  grand,  and  full 
Of  the  quick  life  of  mind,  is  sent  abroad, 
Than  ever  meets  the  anxious  ear,  when  crowds 
Drink  in  the  rhetoric  of  master  souls. 


228 

Her  looks  were  purely  Grecian,  such  as  charm 
Taste  in  an  ancient  statue,  or  a  gem, 
Of  fair  intaglio,  where  a  perfect  white, 
Shaped  to  a  nymph-like  beauty,  sparkles  in 
A  ground  of  azure  ; — it  was  such  a  face, 
As  had  enamoured  Raphael,  or  inspired 
The  pencil  of  Corregio  to  the  birth 
Of  a  blue-eyed  Madonna,  or  a  calm 
And  pensive  Spirit  looking  up  to  Heaven, 
Poised  on  a  seraph's  wing  high  in  the  dome 
Of  an  Italian  temple,  where  the  God 
Of  charity  is  worshipped,  and  the  form 
Of  Him  who  died  on  Calvary  adored. 
Her  brow  was  softly  arched,  and  it  was  pure 
And  pale  as  marble,  and  the  dew  of  death 
Seemed  resting  there,  and  gave  a  fearful  tint 
To  its  else  perfect  loveliness,  and  told 
Thoughts  were  at  work  beneath  it,  which  might  still 
Ere  long  the  life  within  her,  but  are  loved, 
Although  we  know  them  fatal,  as  we  cling 
To  the  Circean  bowl,  and  dying  grasp 
At  its  alluring  poison,  which  conveys 
A  madness  to  the  brain  that  hath  a  touch 
Of  inspiration  in  its  reveries, 
And  spreads  around  the  spirit  light  and  calm, 
Till  earth  seems  beautiful  and  life  is  heaven. 
Her  hair  was  of  a  sunny  brown,  and  fine 
As  lines  of  light  that  stream  across  a  cloud, 


229 

Ere  the  sun  rises,  or  the  scarlet  tuft, 

That  floats  beneath  the  green  wave,  where  on  rocks 

The  sea-plume  clings,  and  throws  its  feeling  threads, 

Like  flowing  silk  around  it.     It  was  full, 

And  dropped  in  light  profusion  down  her  neck, 

And  o'er  her  bosom ;  and  it  parted  lay 

In  native  ringlets  round  her  brow,  and  shone 

Deeper  beside  the  snow  it  rested  on, 

And  that  came  fairer  through  the  curling  shade 

That  waved  above  it,  as  the  sighing  wind 

Sent  a  sweet-breathing  air  to  shake  the  leaves, 

And  crisp  the  sheeted  water.     As  she  hung 

Her  head  in  deepest  sorrow,  some  few  tears 

Stole  out  and  pearled  her  cheek,  but  these  she  brushed 

With  a  light  touch  aside,  and  then  renewed 

A  song,  half  sad,  half  playful,  such  as  comes 

From  a  crazed  brain,  that  says,  it  knows  not  why, 

A  thousand  things  which  are  at  first  as  gay 

As  wild  mirth  in  a  revel,  and  then  fall 

To  a  faint  tone,  in  which  despair  aione 

Can  have  a  concord,  and  at  last  a  sob 

Closes  it,  and  her  glistening  tears  overflow. 

She  lifted  up  her  head,  and  mutely  gazed 
Awhile  upon  the  world  above,  and  then 
Her  ashy  lips  were  moving,  but  no  sound 
Came  through  their  parting  paleness,  still  it  shone 
With  a  faint  hectic  flush,  like  the  last  tint 
The  sun  casts  on  a  wreath  of  mists,  and  then 


230  PEKCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

A  most  intense  cerulean  veils  it  o'er, 

So  that  the  sky  seems  tintless.     As  she  looked 

Far  in  the  silent  atmosphere,  methought 

Her  blue  eye  had  a  fixedness,  and  saw 

A  form  distinctly  featured,  and  she  rose 

Half  from  her  seat  of  turf,  and  threw  her  arms, 

As  if  to  meet  it  in  a  fond  embrace, 

And  a  sweet  smile  broke  on  her  lips,  and  tears 

Stood  glistening  on  her  eyelids,  such  quick  joy 

Stirred  in  her  heart,  and  one  faint  word  alone 

Escaped,  it  was  LEONI  : — then  she  dropped 

Suddenly  on  her  settle,  and  her  head 

Drooped  languidly,  and  her  long  flowing  locks 

Showered  their  full  ringlets  o'er  her,  big  round  tears 

Dropt  thick  and  freshly  through  them,  and  her  sobs 

Shook  her,  they  were  so  deep  ;  she  pressed  her  brow 

And  wrung  her  hands,  and  then  she  cast  them  down 

Clasped  on  the  sod  beside  her,  shook  her  head, 

And  with  a  sweet  low  voice  sighed  out,  "no  more." 

She  plucked  the  flowers  that  grew  around,  and  kissed 
Their  purple  and  their  yellow  leaves,  and  long 
Inhaled  their  perfume;  then  she  opened  wide 
Her  lips  to  the  wild  laugh,  that  tells  despair, 
And  it  rang  terribly  around,  and  oft 
She  uttered  it  still  louder,  and  her  eye 
Kindled  and  flashed  intensely,  and  the  spot 
Of  death  stood  glowing  like  a  ring  of  fire 
On  the  blue  paleness  of  her  cheek,  and  full 


The  dark  veins  throbbed  upon  her  brow,  and  shot 
Their  branches  o'er  her  temples,  and  she  waved 
Her  hand,  that  seemed  a  spirit's,  where  the  light 
Shone  with  a  purple  glimmer  through,  and  then 
She  outward  turned  her  palm,  and  often  pushed 
Some  hateful  object  from  her,  and  a  dark 
Mysterious  look  of  madness  glazed  her  eye, 
And  her  pearl  teeth  were  set,  and  her  frame  shook 
With  an  internal  shuddering;  then  with  slow 
And  broken  sounds  she  muttered,  "false  and  foul.  r 

Suddenly  she  sank  down,  and  bending  low 
Hid  her  face  in  her  mantle;  one  weak  groan 
Stole  from  her,  like  a  dying  wind  at  eve 
Through  a  sere  vine  in  autumn  :  then  her  lamb 
Drew  to  her  side,  and  looked  with  wistful  eye 
On  her  wild  sorrow  ;  as  her  dim  eye  caught 
The  innocent  eye  that  gazed  so  fondly,  calm 
She  lifted  up  her  forehead,  and  composed 
Her  scattered  tresses,  and  held  out  her  hand 
To  the  compassionate  creature,  who  was  now 
The  only  one  she  trusted  in;  —  she  smiled, 
As  mourners  smile,  and  hanging  o'er  she  spake 
Few  words  of  tenderness,  "  thou  wilt  not  leave, 
Fair  face  of  gentleness,  thou  wilt  not  leave, 
Though  the  world  leave  me  :"  then  she  gathered  flowers 
And  grass-blades,  and  she  wove  them  in  a  wreath, 
And  bound  it  round  her  minion's  neck,  and  clasped 
Its  soft  limbs  to  her  bosom,  with  a  kiss 


;. 


232  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

Of  sorrow  and  of  love :  her  soul  seemed  calm, 

And  shone  serenely  through  her  clear  blue  eyes, 

Which  had  in  them  a  meek  divinity, 

All  patience,  and  all  hope,  that  as  she  gazed 

Upward  to  the  pure  vault  and  the  bright  sun, 

Methought  her  spirit  parted,  and  took  wing, 

And  angels  came  to  welcome  it,  and  bear 

The  weary  stranger  to  a  resting-place, 

And  lay  her  on  a  pillow  which  no  thorn 

Hath  ever  entered.     Such  a  sacred  calm 

Was  printed  in  her  look,  that  she  became 

Sainted  to  all  my  feelings,  and  I  stood 

To  see  her  spurn  the  earth,  and  soar  away 

To  the  pure  air  above  the  highest  cone, 

That  still  looked  white  behind  me ;  but  she  soon 

Rose  gently  from  her  seat,  and  threw  her  hair 

With  a  quick  motion  backward,  closely  drew 

Her  russet  cloak,  and  twined  her  braided  line 

Around  her  marble  fingers,  then  looked  down, 

And  said,  "we  must  go  homeward,  sweet  one,  night 

Is  coming  in  the  far  sky,"  and  ere  I 

Could  trace  her,  through  the  silent  wood  withdrew. 


A  TALE. 


SHE  had  been  touched  with  grief,  and  on  her  cheek 
Sorrow  had  left  its  impress  in  the  pale 
Soft  tint  of  fading  loveliness.     She  bore 
Meekly  the  burden  of  her  woes,  and  told 
To  none  the  secret  of  her  heart.     It  preyed 
Forever  on  her  life,  and  blanched  away 
The  roses  which  had  bloomed  so  wooingly 
And  freshly  on  her  laughing  lips.     Her  smile 
Grew  fainter,  and  it  only  spread  a  line 
Of  a  most  tender  carmine,  where  the  snow 
Scarce  had  a  stain  to  mark  it  from  the  pure 
And  perfect  whiteness  of  her  cheek  and  brow — 
So  pure,  she  seemed  a  living  monument 
Of  Parian  marble ;  and  the  flaxen  curls 
That  waved  around  her  forehead,  and  the  arch 
Darker  and  brighter  bent  above  that  eye, 
Which  through  long  lashes  spoke  in  looks  of  fire, 
And  was  the  only  eloquence  she  used— 
These,  and  at  times  a  gushing  to  her  cheek, 
Like  the  first  flush  of  morning,  or  the  faint 
Fast-dying  purple,  when  the  twilight  steals 

30 


Into  the  depth  of  darkness — these  were  all 
That  told  she  yet  was  living,  and  was  not 
An  image  of  the  Graces,  or  the  shade 
Of  a  departed  maiden,  which  at  night 
Visits  the  silent  walks  she  loved,  and  hangs 
Over  the  grave  she  watered,  till  she  took 
Her  last  repose  beside  it. 

She  had  been 

The  gayest  and  the  loveliest,  and  had  moved 
Through  the  light  dance,  and  in  the  bending  crowd 
Of  young  admirers,  like  an  infant  queen 
Proud  of  her  innocent  beauty.     There  was  one 
Who  looked,  but  spake  not;  and  when  others  took 
Her  hand  to  lead  her  through  the  merry  hall, 
In  steps  all  grace  and  harmony,  he  stole 
Aside,  and  wept  in  anguish.     He  was  made 
Not  for  the  place  of  mirth,  but  for  the  still 
And  peaceful  shade  of  feeling,  and  of  thoughts, 
Which  have  their  home  in  higher  souls,  and  are 
Lone,  and  unfriended  and  unknown  below. 
JJis  was  a  social  nature;  yet  not  made 
To  blend  with  crowds,  but  find  in  one  alone, 
One  fairy  minister  of  soft  delights, 
And  pure  as  they  are  tender,  that  deep  joy, 
Which  none  has  ever  uttered.     Long  he  sought 
To  win  her  to  those  calm  retreats,  and  give 
To  her  a  spirit  kindred  to  his.  own, 
And  lead  her  to  the  one  and  only  love, 


PERCIVAI/S    POEMS. 


235 


The  harmony  of  thought,  and  wish,  and  life, 
The  union  of  all  feelings,  whence  the  deep 
Exhaustless  fountain  of  their  blended  hearts 
Flows  ever  deeper,  and  has  ever  more 
Of  music  in  its  flow,  and  more  of  light 
And  beauty  in  its  fulness.     Thus  he  dwelt 
On  her  fresh  loveliness,  until  his  life 
Was  linked  unto  her  image,  and  her  form 
Mingled  with*  every  thought,  and  every  spot, 
Where  the  new  spring  looked  beautiful,  was  filled 
With  her  pervading  presence;  but  he  dared 
Speak  only  to  the  mountain-winds  her  name, 
And  only  in  a  whisper. 

She  had  marked 

The  silent  youth,  and  with  a  beauty's  eye 
Knew  well  she  was  beloved,  and  though  her  light 
And  bounding  spirit  still  was  wild  and  gay, 
And  sporting  in  the  revel,  yet  her  hours 
Of  solitude  were  visited  by  him, 
Who  looked  with  such  deep  passion.     She  too  loved, 
And  saw  more  in  his  melancholy  eye, 
And  in  the  delicate  form,  and  the  still  look, 
And  that  high  front  of  intellect,  which  crowned 
Features  that  were  all  tenderness  and  love, 
Like  the  fair  shrine  of  poesy,  where  thoughts 
Dwelt  high  and  solemn,  such  as  from  their  seat 
Of  glory  visit  none,  but  the  great  few, 
Whose  language  is  immortal — there  she  saw 


' 


236 

More  that  had  charms  to  win  her,  than  in  all 

The  light  unmeaning  swarm,  who  fawned,  and  danced, 

And  played  their  tricks  in  envious  rivalry, 

Happy  to  draw  from  her  one  scornful  smile. 

She  loved  him  with  a  true  and  early  love, 
And  with  her  tenderness  there  was  a  sense 
Of  awe,  when  on  those  magic  eyes  she  gazed, 
Which  seemed  to  look  on  spirits,  not  on  men. 
Still,  in  her  innocent  cheerfulness,  she  sought 
To  lead  him  from  his  solitary  haunts, 
And  throw  bright  smiles  upon  that  shaded  brow, 
And  light  that  eye  to  rapture  from  its  deep 
And  mute  abstraction.     So  she  laughed  and  sung* 
And  called  him  to  the  dance ;  but  with  a  gush 
Of  feeling  irresistible,  he  stole 
Aside  and  wept.     Again  he  sought  her  ear, 
And  told  her  his  fond  tale.     First  she  looked  cold, 
And  o'er  her  forehead  curled  a  playful  frown; 
Then  suddenly,  and  with  a  few  light  words, 
She  scornfully  turned  from  him,  and  enjoyed 
The  moment  of  her  triumph — it  was  short, 
For  with  a  firm,  fixed  look,  in  which  were  seen 
More  thoughts  of  grief  than  anger,  he  drew  back, 
And  casting  one  proud  farewell  glance,  that  told 
There  was  no  after  hope,  he  turned  away, 
And  soon  was  gone,  an  exile,  none  knew  where. 

He  wandered  to  another  land,  and  found 
New  friends,  who  sought  to  cheer  him ;  but  a  weight 


237 


Hung  on  his  heart,  and  would  not  be  removed; 
The  feeling  of  regret  and  injury, 
The  love  that  will  not  perish,  and  the  pride 
That  quenches  love,  but  does  not  make  it  hate; 
The  fondness  that  will  steal  at  times,  and  melt 
The  heart  to  tears,  and  then  the  sudden  pang 
Of  long-remembered  scorn,  which  freezes  fast 
The  fountain  in  its  flow,  and  leaves  the  cold 
Dim  glare  of  one,  whose  only  hope  is  death. 

He  was  in  happy  regions,  and  the  sky 
Above  him  was  most  beautiful ;  its  blue 
Was  higher  and  intenser,  and  it  took 
The  spirit  on  a  journey  into  Heaven, 
And  made  it  more  than  mortal :  cool,  soft  gales 
Stole  from  a  peaceful  ocean,  whose  bright  waves 
Rolled  gently  on  to  music,  and  they  blew 
Through  woven  trellices  of  all-sweet  flowers, 
And  sported  round  long  wreaths  of  festooned  vines 
Hung  with  the  gayest  blossoms,  and  o'er  beds, 
That  breathed  in  mellowest  airs  of  balm  and  myrrh. 
Music  was  in  those  bowers,  and  Beauty  there 
Crowded  in  mystic  dances,  and  their  nights 
Were  consecrated  to  the  skilful  sounds 
Of  a  most  witching  harmony,  to  choirs 
Such  as  once  moved  in  Athens  to  the  voice 
Of  flutes  and  timbrels.     Many  an  eye  was  bent 
Full  on  the  noble  stranger,  and  they  sought 
To  win  his  smile ;  but  yet  he  would  not  smile, 


. 


238  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

For  all  his  better  thoughts  were  far  away, 
And  when  he  looked  upon  the  lovely  ones 
Around  him,  it  recalled  with  keener  sense, 
Her,  who  to  him  was  lovelier,  whom  he  loved, 
But  would  not  in  his  bitterness  forgive. 

When  it  was  told  her  that  the  youth  had  fled, 
And  fled  in  anger,  then  her  look  was  changed, 
And  never  more  her  steps  were  in  the  dance, 
Nor  were  the  cheerful  sounds  of  her  sweet  voice 
Heard  in  the  crowd  of  revellers.     Alone 
She  wept  the  folly  which  had  thrown  away 
The  only  treasure  she  had  truly  loved, 
And  left  her  in  the  fairest  of  her  days, 
The  very  spring-time  of  her  loveliness, 
Only  to  think  of  what  had  been,  and  grieve. 


NIGHT  WATCHING. 

SHE  sat  beside  her  lover,  and  her  hand 
Rested  upon  his  clay-cold  forehead.     Death 
Was  calmly  stealing  o'er  him,  and  his  life 
Went  out  by  silent  flickerings,  when  his  eye 
Woke  up  from  its  dim  lethargy,  and  cast 
Bright  looks  of  fondness  on  her.     He  was  weak. 
Too  weak  to  utter  all  his  heart.     His  eye 
Was  now  his  only  language,  and  it  spake 
How  much  he  felt  her  kindness,  and  the  love 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  239 


That  sat,  when  all  had  feed,  beside  him.     Night 
Was  far  upon  its  watches,  and  the  voice 
Of  Nature  had  no  sound.     The  pure  blue  sky 
Was  fair  and  lovely,  and  the  many  stars 
Looked  down  in  tranquil  beauty  on  an  earth 
That  smiled  in  sweetest  summer.     She  looked  out 
Through  the  raised  window,  and  the  sheeted  bay 
Lay  in  a  quiet  sleep  below,  and  shone 
With  the  pale  beam  of  midnight — air  was  still, 
And  the  white  sail,  that  o'er  the  distant  stream 
Moved  with  so  slow  a  pace,  it  seemed  at  rest, 
Fixed  in  the  glassy  water,  and  with  care 
Shunned  the  dark  den  of  pestilence,  and  stole 
Fearfully  from  the  tainted  gale  that  breathed 
Softly  along  the  crisping  wave — that  sail 
Hung  loosely  on  its  yard,  and  as  it  flapped, 
Caught  moving  undulations  from  the  light, 
That  silently  came  down,  and  gave  the  hills, 
And  spires,  and  walls,  and  roofs,  a  tint  so  pale, 
Death  seemed  on  all  the  landscape — but  so  still, 
Who  would  have  thought  that  any  thing  but  peace 
And  beauty  had  a  dwelling  there!     The  world 
Had  gone,  and  life  was  not  within  those  walls,, 
Only  a  few,  who  lingered  faintly  on, 
Waiting  the  moment  of  departure ;  or 
Sat  tending  at  their  pillows,  with  a  love 
So  strong  it  mastered  fear — and  the^  were  few, 

And  she  was  one — and  in  a  lonely  house, 

• 


,240  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

Far  from  all  sight  and  sound  of  living  thing, 

She  watched  the  couch  of  him  she  loved,  and  drew 

Contagion  from  the  lips  that  were  to  her 

Still  beautiful  as  roses,  though  so  pale 

They  seemed  like  a  thin  snow  curl.     All  was  still, 

And  even  so  deeply  hushed,  the  low,  faint  breath 

That  trembling  gasped  away,  came  through  the  night 

As  a  loud  sound  of  awe.     She  passed  her  hand 

Over  those  quivering  lips,  that  ever  grew 

Paler  and  colder,  as  the  only  sign 

To  tell  her  life  still  lingered — it  went  out! 

And  her  heart  sank  within  her,  when  the  last 

Weak  sigh  of  life  was  over,  and  the  room 

Seemed  like  a  vaulted  sepulchre,  so  lone 

She  dared  not  look  around  :  and  the  light  wind, 

That  played  among  the  leaves  and  flowers  that  grew 

Still  freshly  at  her  window,  and  waved  back 

The  curtain  with  a  rustling  sound,  to  her, 

In -her  intense  abstraction,  seemed  the  voice 

Of  a  departed  spirit.     Then  she  heard, 

At  least  in  fancy  heard,  a  whisper  breathe 

Close  at  her  ear,  and  tell  her  all  was  done, 

And  her  fond  loves  were  ended.     She  had  watched 

Until  her  love  grew  manly,  and  she  checked 

The  tears  that  came  to  flow,  and  nerved  her  heart 

To  the  last  solemn  duty.     With  a  hand 

That  trembled  not,  she  closed  the  fallen  lid, 

And  pressed  the  lips,  and  gave  them  one  long  kiss — 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

Then  decently  spread  over  all  a  shroud  j 
And  sitting  with  a  look  of  lingering  love 
Intense  in  tearless  passion,  rose  at  length, 
And  pressing  both  her  hands  upon  her  brow, 
Gave  loose  to  all  her  gushing  grief  in  showers, 
Which,  as  a  fountain  sealed  till  it  had  swelled 
To  its  last  fulness,  now  gave  way  and  flowed 
In  a  deep  stream  of  sorrow.     She  grew  calm, 
And  parting  back  the  curtains,  looked  abroad 
Upon  the  moonlight  loveliness,  all  sunk 
In  one  unbroken  silence,  save  the  moan 
From  the  lone  room  of  death,  or  the  dull  sound 
Of  the  slow-moving  hearse.     The  homes  of  men 
Were  now  all  desolate,  and  darkness  there, 
Arid  solitude  and  silence  took  their  seat 
In  the  deserted  streets,  as  if  the  wing 
Of  a  destroying  angel  had  gone  by, 
And  blasted  all  existence,  and  had  changed 
The  gay,  the  busy,  and  the  crowded  mart 
To  one  cold,  speechless  city  of  the  dead  ! 


241 


PLEASURES  OF  CHILDHOOD, 

THERE  is  a  middle  place  between  the  strong 
And  vigorous  intellect  a  Newton  had, 
And  the  wild  ravings  of  insanity; 
Where  fancy  sparkles  with  unwearied  light. 

31 


PERCIVALS  POEMS. 

Where  memory's  scope  is  boundless,  and  the  fire 

Of  passion  kindles  to  a  wasting  flame, 

But  will  is  weak,  and  judgment  void  of  power. 

Such  was  the  place  I  held;  the  brighter  part 

Shone  out,  and  caught  the  wonder  of  the  great 

In  tender  childhood,  while  the  weaker  half 

Had  all  the  feebleness  of  infancy. 

A  thousand  wildering  reveries  led  astray 

My  better  reason,  and  my  unguarded  soul 

Danced  like  a  feather  on  the  turbid  sea 

Of  its  own  wild  and  freakish  phantasies. 

At  times  the  historic  page  would  catch  my  eye, 

And  rivet  down  my  thoughts  on  ancient  times, 

And  mix  them  with  the  demigods  of  old. 

Again  I  girt  my  loins  to  cross  the  waste 

Of  burning  Afric,  and  amid  the  wilds 

Of  Abyssinia  seek  the  modest  springs, 

Whence  bubble  out  the  waters  of  the  Nile, 

The  infancy  of  greatness — how  I  loved 

To  ascend  the  pyramids,  and  in  their  womb 

Gaze  on  the  royal  cenotaph,  to  sit 

Beneath  thy  ruined  palaces  and  fanes, 

Balbec  or  princely  Tadmor,  though  the  one 

Lurk  like  a  hermit  in  the  lonely  vales 

Of  Lebanon,  and  the  waste  wilderness 

Embrace  the  other — scouring  with  the  wind. 

I  swept  the  desert  on  the  Arab  steed, 

Or  with  the  panting  camel  flew  away. 


PERCIVAL  S    POEMS.  24«) 

There  is  an  ecstacy  in  solitude, 

Amid  the  broken  images  of  power, 

The  serpent,  owl  and  jackal  make  their  home, 

Or  in  the  heart  of  ocean,  or  the  sands 

Of  Araby,  or  on  the  boundless  plains 

Of  central  Asia,  whence  the  savage  Hun 

And  Mogol  in  devouring  torrents  rushed. 

Armed  with  the  rifle,  tomahawk  and  bow, 

How  oft  I  wandered  through  the  solemn  wood? 

And  tangled  morasses  of  Florida, 

Or  where  the  wave  of  Mississippi  pours 

Its  yet  unsullied  current  o'er  the  steep 

Of  Antony,  and  winds  among  the  hills 

Of  velvet  verdure  silently  and  slow. 

The  philosophic  page  was  my  delight, 

To  trace  the  workings  of  a  hand  unseen, 

In  earth,  in  air,  and  ocean,  and  the  world 

Of  wonders,  which  the  canopy  of  night 

Discloses  twinkling  on  its  ebon  arch. 

These  were  my  pleasures,  and  the  varied  forms 

Of  animal  and  plant,  the  bird,  who  cuts 

With  gliding  wing  the  liquid  air,  the  fly, 

That  flutters  o'er  its  parent  pool  a  day, 

The  polished  shells  that  pave  the  snowy  bed 

Of  ocean,  with  their  many  hues  in  soft 

Accordance  blended,  like  the  ancient  floor 

Wrought  in  Mosaic,  or  the  sprig  and  flower, 

That  smile  in  vale  and  meadow  bathed  in  dew. 


244 


These  were  at  times  my  pleasures,  but  at  times 
The  childish  part  prevailed.     Along  the  stream. 
That  flowed  in  summer's  mildness  o'er  its  bed 
Of  rounded  pebbles,  with  its  scanty  wave 
Encircling  many  an  islet,  and  its  banks 
In  bays  and  havens  scooping,  I  would  stray, 
And,  dreaming,  rear  an  empire  on  its  shores. 
There  cities  rose,  and  palaces  and  towers 
Caught  the  first  light  of  morning,  there  the  fleet 
Lent  all  its  snowy  canvass  to  the  wind, 
And  bore  with  awful  front  against  the  foe; 
There  armies  marshalled  their  array,  and  joined 
In  mimic  slaughter,  there  the  conquered  fled — 
I  followed  their  retreat,  until  secure 
They  found  a  refuge  in  their  country's  walls; 
The  triumphs  of  the  conqueror  were  mine, 
The  bounds  of  empire  widenedj  and  the  wealth 
Torn  from  the  helpless  hands  of  humbled  foes : 
There  many  a  childish  hour  was  spent,  the  world, 
That  moved  and  fretted  round  me,  had  no  power 
To  draw  me  from  my  musings,  but  the  dream 
Enthralled  me  till  it  seemed  reality ; 
And  when  I  woke,  I  wondered  that  a  brook 
Was  babbling  by,  and  a  few  rods  of  soil, 
Covered  with  scant  herbs,  the  arena  where 
Cities  and  empires,  fleets  and  armies  rose, 


VOYAGE  OF  LIFE. 


I  LAUNCHED  my  bark  upon  a  waveless  sea — 
Tfre  morning  glowed,  the  sun  just  risen  shone 
In  dazzling  light  along  the  glassy  plain. 
That  seemed  a  golden  mirror,  or  as  oft 
A  transient  zephyr  ruffled  it,  a  flood 
Of  molten  amber.     How  the  purple  sail, 
And  blue  and  crimson  streamer  wooed  the  wind. 
At  times  the  bellying  bosom  of  the  sheet 
Received  the  rising  gale,  and  onward  bore 
The  white  and  glittering  prow,  as  through  the  wave 
It  ploughed  and  heaved  around  the  crested  foam, 
Like  snow-wreaths  resting  on  a  ground  of  gold. 
Again  the  rising  zephyr  died  away, 
The  boundless  air  was  still,  the  canvass  flapped 
And  trembled  on  the  yard,  the  streamers  drooped, 
And  fluttering  waved  around  the  mast-head,  sea 
And  air  were  motionless — the  crystal  flood 
Opened  its  awful  depths  beneath — so  clear, 
The  bark  seemed  hanging  in  the  midway  space 
Between  the  sky  above  and  earth  below : 
So  still  the  elements,  the  briny  drop, 

. 


446 

That  trickled  from  the  prow  to  meet  the  wave, 

Was  heard  distinctly,  and  the  rippling  shoal 

Of  blue-finned  mackerel,  or  the  whispering  flight 

Of  the  air-loving  dweller  of  the  deep, 

Fell  on  my  ear  and  woke  me  from  my  dream. 

So  passed  the  bark  of  life  o'er  childhood's  seaj 

But  youth  came  on,  and  blustering  winds  arose ; 

Dark  tempests  gathered  round,  the  howling  blast 

Roared  through  the  cordage,  every  sail  was  rent, 

The  loosened  helm  gave  way,  and  like  the  steed 

Maddened  with  luxury,  that  flies  the  rein 

And  hurries  on  to  ruin,  so  the  bark 

Ran  wild  before  the  tempest;  now  it  rose 

The  billowy  mountain,  in  the  yawning  gulph 

Now  headlong  plunged ;  the  shriek  was  then  unheard 

Amid  the  vaster  tumult;  then  the  night 

Of  storms  enwrapped  me,  by  the  bursting  foam, 

' 
The  sparkling  fire  of  ocean,  or  the  flash, 

The  harbinger  of  thunder,  or  the  pale 

And  baleful  meteor  of  sickly  green, 

That  on  the  bowsprit  led  the  way  to  death, 

Alone  illumined.     What  a  deafening  roar 

From  bursting  billows,  how  the  breaker's  voice, 

Conflicting  with  the  sea-beat  crag,  arose 

And  bellowed  through  the  gloom ;  the  sea-dog  there, 

Mounted  above  his  danger,  howled  and  bayed; 

The  dying  whale  dashed  on  the  splintery  rock, 

Groaned  out  his  giant  soul;  the  cormorant 

. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  247 

Flapped- his  black  wings  around  my  head;   the  loon, 

Perched  on  the  topmast,  sent  his  baleful  scream. 

Like  the  mad  meanings  of  a  tortured  man. 

So  raged  the  storm  around  me,  till  a  light, 

Dimly  discovered  through  the  darkness,  showed 

Where  help  might  yet  be  found ;  a  secret  hand 

Then  seemed  to  grasp  the  rudder,  o'er  the  waves 

The  bark  right  onward  held  its  steady  course ; 

The  tempest  seemed  to  mitigate  its  rage, 

The  thunders  ceased,  the  clouds  spread  out  their  veil 

In  thinner  folds,  and  through  a  transient  break 

Sent  a  faint  gleam  of  sunshine ;  from  behind 

A  gentle  wind  blew  steady;  in  the  west 

The  golden  sky  shone  out,  a  larger  curve 

Of  brightness  every  instant  opened,  till 

The  sun  unveiled  his  face,  and  far  away 

The  tempest  hurried  o'er  the  mountain  waves : 

It  darkling  flew,  till  on  its  bosom  rose 

The  many-coloured  bow ;  serenity 

Then  filled  the  air,  the  white  gull  o'er  me  flew, 

And  the  blue  halcyon  came  and  on  the  wave 

Alighted,  hid  its  head  beneath  its  wing, 

And  slept  as  on  a  pillow;  still  the  sea 

Lifted  its  broad  green  back,  and  seemed  to  rock 

Its  fury  to  repose ;  I  neared  the  land, 

Blue  hills  first  smiled,  then  sandy  shores,  like  snow 

Bleached  on  the  heaven-ward  mountain,  caught  my  eye. 

The  light-house  next,  that  with  its  warning  fire. 


248 

Calls  from  the  deep  the  wanderer  to  his  home* 
The  sun  in  cloudless  majesty,  as  king 
Of  nature,  kindled  ocean  with  his  rays, 
And  made  the  land  more  lovely ;  on  I  sailed, 
The  haven  spread  its  arms  to  call  me  in, 
And  clasp  me  in  its  bosom;  there  I  steered, 
And  casting  anchor,  where  no  storm  can  rage. 
Nor  tempest  rock  me,  on  the  peaceful  breast 
Of  love  eternal  moored  my  bark  forever. 


A  PICTURE. 

SCENE — The   Valley  of  the  Calskill  River  north  of  the  CatskiU 
Mountains. 

THE  glories  of  a  clouded  moonlit  night — 
An  union  of  wild  mountains,  and  dark  storms 
Gathering  around  their  summits,  or  in  forms 
Majestic,  moving  far  away  in  light, 
Like  pillared  snow,  or  spectres  wreathed  in  flame—* 
Meanwhile,  around  the  distant  peaks  a  flow 
Of  moonlight  settles,  seeming  from  below, 
Above  the  mountain's  rude  gigantic  frame, 
An  island  of  the  heart,  a  home  of  bright, 
Unsullied  souls,  who,  clad  in  purest  white, 
Their  bosoms  stainless  as  their  mantles,  play 
Around  the  gilded  rocks,  and  snowy  lawns, 
And  azure  groves,  in  choirs  like  bounding  fawns 
Around  the  throne  of  some  imperial  fay — 


249 


Again  the  dark  clouds  brood  below;  their  fold 
A  moment  shrouds  the  mountain  in  dun  shade, 
Like  midnight  blackness  from  a  crater  rolled, 
And  flashing,  as  the  glimmering  of  a  blade 
Amid  the  wreaths  of  war-smoke,  lightnings  quiver, 
And  crackling  bolts  the  oak's  bent  branches  shiver, 
And  rumbling  echoes  from  the  hollow  glens 
Roar,  like  the  voice  of  lions  in  their  dens 
Awing  the  silent  desert — then  the  cloud, 
Careering  on  the  whirlwind,  lifts  its  shroud 
From  off  yon  soaring  pinnacle,  and  sweet, 
Soft  moonlight  there  is  sleeping,  like  the  ray, 
Whose  flashes  on  a  chequered  fountain  play 
Light  as  the  twinkling  glance  of  fairies'  feet, 
Or  brood  in  burnished  brightness  on  the  stream, 
Or  kiss  the  tufted  bank  of  dewy  flowers, 
As  if  consoling,  in  his  boyish  dream, 
Her  shepherd  through  her  own  still  magic  hours — - 
Such  is  the  brightness  on  those  rocky  towers  5 
And  rising  in  an  arch  of  double  height, 
Soaring  away  beyond  that  cone,  the  sky 
Smiles  to  the  harmonizing  touch  of  light, 
Like  the  blue  iris  of  a  joyous  eye — 
The  moon  is  there  in  glory,  and  the  stars 
Shrink  from  her  fuller  splendour,  and  grow  dim 
Behind  the  veil  of  her  effulgence.     Airs, 
As  if  from  Eden  breathing,  blow;  clouds  swim, 
Foamlike  and  fleecy,  round  the  landscape's  brim; 

32 


250 

And  heaving  like  a  storm-swoln  billow's  crest? 

Rolls  the  wild  tempest  in  the  darkened  west, 

Its  flashes  twinkling  through  the  gloom,  its  peals 

Bellowing  amid  the  purple  glens ;  the  rain, 

Scudding  along  the  forest,  bears  the  bow 

Wreathed  round  the  flying  storm-cloud,  as  it  steals 

Stiller  and  stiller  through  the  night — the  stain 

Of  braided  colours,  in  a  softer  glow, 

Bends  o'er  the  foaming  river  its  tall  arch, 

As  if  the  spirits  of  the  air  might  march 

From  mountain  on  to  mountain,  and  look  down, 

In  triumph,  from  the  pictured  circle's  crown, 

On  hamlets  wrapped  in  slumber,  meadows  green  (bowed 

And  gemmed  with  rain-drops,  woods,  whose  leaves  are 

With  the  dissolving  richness  of  the  cloud, 

And  brown  brooks  flashing  down  the  hills,  and  pouring 

Their  tribute  to  the  master  stream,  which  wheels 

Through  the  rude  valley,  foaming,  tumbling,   roaring, 

And  on  the  lonely  wanderer,  who  steals 

Abroad  in  silence  to  that  echoing  shore, 

And  gazing  on  the  mad  wave,  and  the  sky, 

Which  arches  o'er  the  universe  on  high, 

And  on  the  flying  cohorts  of  the  storm 

Hiding  their  frowns  behind  a  seraph's  form, 

With  soul  subdued,  and  awed,  enchanted  eye 

Can  only  bow  before  them  and  adore. 


SPIRIT  OF  FREEDOM. 

SPIRIT  OF  FREEDOM  !  who  thy  home  hast  made 
In  wilds  and  wastes,  \*here  wealth  has  never  trod, 
Nor  bowed  her  coward  head  before  her  god, 
The  sordid  deity  of  fraudful  trade ; 
Where  power  has  never  reared  his  iron  brow, 
And  glared  his  glance  of  terror,  nor  has  blown 
The  maddening  trump  of  battle,  nor  has  flown 
His  blood-thirst  eagles;  where  no  flatterers  bow, 
And  kiss  the  foot  that  spurns  them;  where  no  throne, 
Bright  with  the  spoils  from  nations  wrested,  towers, 
The  idol  of  a  slavish  mob,  who  herd, 
Where  largess  feeds  their  sloth  with  golden  showers, 
And  thousands  hang  upon  one  tyrant's  word — 

SPIRIT  OF  FREEDOM  !  thou,  who  dwellest  alone, 
Unblenched,  unyielding,  on  the  storm-beat  shore, 
And  findest  a  stirring  music  in  its  roar, 
And  lookest  abroad  on  earth  and  sea,  thy  own — 
Far  from  the  city's  noxious  hold,  thy  foot, 
Fleet  as  the  wild  deer  bounds,  as  if  its  breath 
Were  but  the  rankest,  foulest  steam  of  death ; 
Its  soil  were  but  the  dunghill,  where  the  root 


252 

Of  every  poisonous  weed  and  baleful  tree 

Grew  vigorously  and  deeply,  till  their  shade 

Had  choked  and  killed  each  wholesome  plant,  and  laid 

In  rottenness  the  flower  of  LIBERTY — 

Thou  flyest  to  the  desert,  and  its  sands 
Become  thy  welcome  shelter,  where  the  pure 
Wind  gives  its  freshness  to  thy  roving  bands, 
And  languid  weakness  finds  its  only  cure; 
Where  few  their  wants,  and  bounded  their  desires. 
And  life  all  spring  and  action,  they  display 
Man's  boldest  flights,  and  highest,  warmest  fires, 
And  beauty  wears  her  loveliest  array — 
Thou  climbest  the  mountain's  crag,  and  with  the  snow? 
Dwellest  high  above  the  slothful  plains ;  the  rock 
Thy  iron  bed;  the  avalanche's  shock 
Thou  sternly  breastest :  hunger,  cold  and  toil 
Harden  thy  steeled  nerves,  till  the  frozen  soil> 
The  gnarled  oak,  the  torrent,  as  it  flows 
In  thunder  down  its  gulf,  are  not  more  rude^ 
More  hardy,  more  resistless,  than  thy  force, 
When  waked  to  madness  in  thy  headlong  course^ 
Thou  rushest  from  thy  wintry  solitude, 
And  sweepest  frighted  nations  on  thy  path, 
A  whirlwind  in  the  fury  of  thy  wrath, 
And  with  one  curl  of  thy  indignant  frown> 
Castest  the  pride  of  plumed  warriors  down, 
And  bearest  them  onward,  like  the  storm-filled  wave, 
In  mingled  ruin  to  their  bloody  grave. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  ;25o 

SPIRIT  OF  FREEDOM  !  I  would  with  thee  dwell, 
Whether  on  Afric's  sand,  or  Norway's  crags, 
Or  Kansa's  prairies,  for  thou  lovest  them  well, 
And  there  thy  boldest  daring  never  flags ;  « 

Or  I  would  launch  with  thee  upon  the  deep, 
And  like  the  petrel  make  the  wave  my  home, 
And  careless  as  the  sportive  sea-bird  roam; 
Or  with  the  chamois  on  the  Alp  would  leap, 
And  feel  myself  upon  the  snow-clad  height, 
A  portion  of  that  undimmed  flow  of  light, 
No  mist  nor  cloud  can  darken — O!  with  thee, 
Spirit  of  Freedom !  deserts,  mountains,  storms, 
Would  wear  a  glow  of  beauty,  and  their  form? 
Would  soften  into  loveliness,  and  be 
Dearest  of  earth,  for  there  my  soul  is  free. 

HOME. 

. 

THERE  is  a  spot,  a  quiet  spot,  which  blooms 

On  earth's  cold,  heartless  desert.     It  hath  power 
To  give  a  sweetness  to  the  darkest  hour, 
As  in  the  starless  midnight,  from  the  rose, 
Now  dipped  in  dew,  a  sweeter  perfume  flows  5 
And  suddenly  the  wanderer's  heart  assumes 
New  courage,  and  he  keeps  his  course  along, 
Cheering  the  darkness  with  a  whispered  song : 
At  every  step  a  purer,  fresher  air 
Salutes  him,  and  the  winds  of  morning  bear 


254 

Soft  odours  form  the  violet  beds  and  vines ; 
And  thus  he  wanders,  till  the  dawning  shines 
Above  the  misty  mountains,  and  a  hue 
X)f  vermeil  blushes  on  the  cloudless  blue, 
Like  health  disporting  on  the  downy  cheek — 
It  is  time's  fairest  moment — as  a  dove 
Shading  the  earth  with  azure  wings  of  love, 
The  sky  broods  o'er  us,  and  the  cool  winds  speak 
The  peace  of  nature,  and  the  waters  fall, 
From  leap  to  leap,  more  sweetly  musical, 
And,  from  the  cloudy  bosom  of  the  vale, 
Come,  on  the  dripping  pinions  of  the  gale, 
The  simple  melody  of  early  birds 
Wooing  their  mates  to  love,  the  low  of  herds, 
And  the  faint  bleating  of  the  new-born  lambs 
Pursuing,  with  light  bounding  step,  their  dams : 
Again  the  shepherd's  whistle,  and  the  bark, 
That  shrilly  answers  to  his  call;  and  hark! 
As  o'er  the  trees  the  golden  rays  appear, 
Bursts  the  last  joyous  song  of  chanticleer, 
Who  moves  in  stately  pomp  before  his  train, 
Till,  from  his  emerald  neck,  and  burnished  wings, 
The  playful  light  a  dazzling  beauty  flings, 
As  if  the  stars  had  lit  their  fires  again — 
So  sweetly  to  the  wanderer  o'er  the  plain, 
The  rose,  the  jessamine,  and  every  flower, 
That  spreads  its  leafets  in  the  dewy  hour, 
And  catches  in  its  bell,  night's  viewless  rain. 


255 


In  tempered  balm  their  rich  aroma  shower; 

And  with  this  charm  the  morning  on  his  eye, 

Looks  from  her  portals  in  the  eastern  sky, 

And  throws  her  blushes  o'er  the  sleeping  earth, 

And  wakes  it  to  a  fresh  and  lovely  birth — 

O !  such  a  charm  adorns  that  fairest  spot, 

Where  noise  and  revelry  disturb  me  not, 

But  all  the  spirits  that  console  me,  come, 

And  o'er  me  spread  a  peaceful  canopy, 

And  stand  with  messages  of  kindness  by, 

And  one  sweet  dove,  with  eyes  that  look  me  blessed, 

Sits  brooding  all  my  treasures  in  her  nest, 

Without  one  slightest  wish  the  world  to  roam, 

Or  leave  me,  and  thi.t  quiet  dwelling — home. 


THE  DESERTED  WIFE. 

fa 
HE  comes  not — I  have  watched  the  moon  go  down, 

But  yet  he  comes  not — Once  it  was  not  so. 

He  thinks  not  how  these  bitter  tears  do  flow, 

The  while  he  holds  his  riot  in  that  town. 

Yet  he  will  come,  and  chide,  and  I  shall  weep  j 

And  he  will  wake  my  infant  from  its  sleep, 

To  blend  its  feeble  wailing  with  my  tears. 

O  !  how  I  love  a  mother's  watch  to  keep, 

Over  those  sleeping  eyes,  that  smile,  which  cheers 

My  heart,  though  sunk  in  sorrow,  fixed  and  deep. 


256 

I  had  a  husband  once,  who  loved  me — now 
He  ever  wears  a  frown  upon  his  brow, 
And  feeds  his  passion  on  a  wanton's  lip, 
As  bees,  from  laurel  flowers,  a  poison  sip ; 
But  yet  I  cannot  hate — O  !  there  were  hours, 
When  I  could  hang  forever  on  his  eye, 
And  time,  who  stole  with  silent  swiftness  by, 
Strewed,  as  he  hurried  on,  his  path  with  flowers. 
I  loved  him  then — he  loved  me  too — My  heart 
Still  finds  its  fondness  kindle,  if  he  smile ; 
The  memory  of  our  loves  will  ne'er  depart ; 
And  though  he  often  sting  me  with  a  dart, 
Venomed  and  barbed,  and  waste  upon  the  vile 
Caresses,  which  his  babe  and  mine  should  share ; 
Though  he  should  spurn  me,  I  will  calmly  bear 
His  madness — and  should  sickness  come,  and  lay 
Its  paralyzing  hand  upon  him,  then 
I  would,  with  kindness,  all  my  wrongs  repay. 
Until  the  penitent  should  weep,  and  say, 
How  injured,  and  how  faithful  I  had  been. 


LOVE  AT  EVENING. 

IT  was  the  hour  of  moonlight — and  the  bells 
Had  rung  their  curfew  tones,  and  they  were  still 
The  echo  died  around  the  distant  hill, 
Sinking  in  faint  and  fainter  falls  and  swells, 


257 

Accordant  with  the  fitful  wind,  that  blew 
Over  the  new  mown  meadow,  where  the  dew 
Stood  twinkling  on  the  closely  shaven  stems, 
Glittering  as  'twere  a  carpet  sown  with  gems ; 
And  from  the  winding  river  there  arose 
A  mist,  that  curled  in  volumed  folds,  and  gave 
A  snowy  mantle  to  the  stealing  wave, 
Like  that  which  fancy,  love-enchanted  throws 
Over  the  form  it  doats  on  with  a  feeling 
Of  most  endeared  fondness,  blind  to  all, 
That  is  not  light  and  loveliness,  concealing 
The  tints  of  weakness  with  a  darkest  pall : 
And  as  the  moon  descending  on  the  cloud, 
Gives  it  a  rainbow  livery,  and  hues 
All  softness  and  all  beauty,  so  imbues 
The  fond  eye  of  affection  with  all  charms 
The  image  of  its  awe  :  and  he  is  proud, 
Aye,  prouder  than  the  proudest,  when  his  arms 
Around  that  form  of  loveliness  are  flung, 
And  when  those  melting  eyes  are  on  him  hung, 
And  when  those  lips  are  moving  in  sweet  tones, 
That  tell,  whate'er  the  words  be,  that  she  owns 
No  other  for  her  love — and  then  the  sigh 
Struggles  within  her  bosom,  and  her  eye 
Is  wet  with  rising  tears,  and  then  the  smile 
Plays  sweetly  on  her  parting  lips  awhile, 
And  then  she  hangs  upon  his  arm,  and  tells, 
Her  heart  how  happy — and  that  fond  heart  swells 

33 


258 


To  give  its  feelings  utterance,  and  she  sings 

Sweetly,  as  when  the  lark  at  morning  springs 

From  out  a  dewy  thicket,  and  away 

Winnows  his  easy  flight  to  meet  the  day ; 

And  thus  their  eyes  are  blended,  and  they  gaze 

A  moment  on  each  other,  and  then  turn 

To  where  the  countless  fires  of  ether  burn. 

And  look  from  Heaven  with  soft  and  soothing  rays; 

A  moment  with  uplifted  brow  they  pour 

The  swelling  current  of  devotion  o'er, 

And  then  descending  from  that  upward  flight, 

Again  their  eyes  in  tender  looks  unite, 

Again  they  speak  in  under  tones,  as  still 

As  are  the  winds  that  rustle  on  the  hill, 

Then  side  by  side  in  links  of  fondness  prest 

Steal  silently  unto  their  hallowed  rest. 


SILENT  she  stood  before  me,  in  the  light 
And  majesty  of  beauty ;  and  her  eye 
Was  teeming  with  the  visions  of  her  soul — 
She  stood  before  me  in  a  veil  of  white, 
The  image  of  her  bosom's  purity, 
And  loveliness  enveloped  her.  as  bright, 
As  when,  at  set  of  sun,  the  clouds  unrol, 
Pavilioning  the  dusky  throne  of  night. 

I 


PERCIVM/S 


There  is  a  spirit  in  tin-  kindling  glance 
Oi*  pure  and  lofty  beauty,  which  doth  quell 
Each  darker  passion;  and,  as  heroes  fell 
Before  the  terror  of  Minerva'^  lance, 
So  beauty,  armed  with  virtue,  bows  the  soul 
With  a  commanding,  but  a  snort  control, 
IMakiim  the  heart  all  holiness  and  love, 
And  lifting  it  to  worlds  that  shine  above, 
1'ntil  subdued,  we  humbly  bend  before 
The  idol  of  our  worship  to  adore. 


STAR  of  the  pensive!  "  melancholy  Star," 
That,  from  the  bosom  of  the  deep  ascending, 
Shines  on  the  curling  waves,  like  mourner  bending 
Over  the  ruins  of  the  joys  that  were; 
Or  lone  deserted  mother  sweetly  tending 
Her  hushed  babe  in  its  cradle,  often  blending 
Her  plaintive  song  and  sigh  repressed — sweet  star! 
I  love  the  eye  that  looks  on  me  so  far 
From  all  this  want,  and  wretchedness,  and  wo, 
From  out  that  home  of  pure  serenity 
Above  the  winds  and  clouds — When  tempests  blow, 
The  sailor  through  the  darkness  looks  to  thee — 
Thou  art  the  star  of  love,  and  fond  lit  art- 
With  feeling  awe  upon  thy  trembling  rays, 


260 


And  dream  that  other  eyes  are  resting  there  f 
And  O  !  what  light  around  the  bosom  plays, 
When  dwelling  on  the  beautiful  and  fair, 
We  think  that  eyes  beloved  those  beauties  share. 


"  O !  there  is  a  bliss  in  tears" — in  tears,  that  flow 
From  out  a  heart,  where  tender  feelings  dwell, 
That  heaveth,  with  involuntary  swell 
Of  joy  or  grief,  for  others'  weal  or  wo — 
The  highest  pleasures  fortune  can  bestow, 
The  proudest  deeds  that  victory  can  tell, 
The  charms  that  beauty  weaveth  in  her  spell, 
These  holy,  happy  tears  how  far  below : 
Yes,  I  would  steal  me  from  life's  gaudy  show, 
And  seek  a  covert  in  a  silent  shade, 
And  where  the  cheating  lights  of  being  glow, 
See  glory  after  glory  dimly  fade, 
And  knowing  all  my  brighter  visions  o'er, 
Deep  in  my  bosom's  core  my  sorrows  lay, 
And  thence  the  fountains  of  repentance  pour. 
Gush  after  gush,  in  purer  streams  away. 


VAUCLUSE. 

THE  laurel  throws  its  locks  around  thy  grave 
As  freshly,  as  when  erst  thou  lingered  there, 
And  plucked  the  early  flowers  to  crown  thy  hair, 
Or  gathered  cresses  from  the  glassy  wave, 
That  winds  through  hills  of  olive,  vine,  and  grain, 
Stealing  away  from  Vaucluse'  lonely  dell, 
Now  murmuring  scantily,  now  in  the  swell 
Of  April  foaming  onward  to  the  plain — 
Laura!     Thy  consecrated  bough  is  bright, 
As  when  thy  Petrarch  tuned  his  soft  lute  by, 
And  lit  his  torch  in  that  dissolving  light, 
Which  darted  from  his  only  Sun — thine  eye ; 
Thy  leaf  is  still  as  green,  thy  flower  as  gay, 
Thy  berry  of  as  deep  a  tint,  as  when 
Thou  moved  a  Goddess  in  the  walks  of  Men, 
And  o'er  thy  poet  held  unbounded  sway — 
Methinks  I  hear,  as  from  the  hills  descend 
The  deepening  shadows  and  the  blue  smoke  curls, 
And  waving  forests  with  the  light  winds  bend, 
And  flows  the  brook  in  softer  leaps  and  whirls — 
Methinks  I  hear  that  voice  of  love  complaining, 
In  faint  and  broken  accents,  of  his  hours 


262  PERCIVAL'S    POEMS. 

t 

Of  lonely  sorrow,  and  of  thy  disdaining 

And  half  averted  glances,  till  the  bowers 

Are  pregnant  with  the  hymn,  and  every  rose 

With  fresher  dew,  as  if  in  weeping  flows, 

And  every  lily  seems  to  wear  a  hue 

Of  paler  tenderness,  and  deeper  glows 

The  pink's  carnation,  and  a  purer  blue 

Melts  on  the  modest  rosemary,  the  wind 

Whispers  a  sweeter  echo,  and  the  stream 

Spouts  stiller  from  its  well ;  while  from  behind 

The  snow-clad  alpine  summits  rolls  the  moon, 

Careering  onward  to  her  cloudless  noon, 

In  fullest  orb  of  silver,  and  her  beam 

Casts  o'er  the  vale  long  shadows  from  the  pine, 

The  rock,  the  spire,  the  castle,  and  away, 

Beyond  thy  towers,  Avignon !  proudly  shine 

The  broad  Rhone's  foaming  channels,  in  their  play 

Through  green  and  willowed  islands,  while  they  sweep, 

Descending  on  their  bold,  resistless  way, 

And  heaving  high  their  crest  in  wild  array, 

With  all  a  torrent's  grandeur  to  the  deep. 

LIGHT  OF  LOVE. 

FAIR,  as  the  first  blown  rose — but  O  !  as  fleeting, 
Soft,  as  the  down  upon  a  cygnet's  breast, 
Sweet,  as  the  air,  when  gales  and  flowers  are  meeting. 
Bright,  as  the  jewel  on  a  sultan's  vest, 


263 

Dear,  as  the  infant  smiling  when  caressed, 
Mild,  as  the  wind,  at  dawn  in  April,  blowing, 
Calm,  as  the  innocent  heart — and  O !  as  blest, 
Pure,  as  the  spring  from  mountain  granite  flowing. 
Gay,  as  the  tulip  in  its  starred  bed  glowing, 
As  clouds,  that  curtain  round  the  west  at  even. 
O'er  earth  a  canopy  of  glory  throwing, 
And  heralding  the  radiant  path  to  heaven. 

Sweet,  as  the  sound,  when  waves,  in  calm,  retreating. 
Roll  back,  in  gurgling  ripples  from  She  shore, 
When  in  the  curling  well  still  waters  meeting, 
Clear,  from  the  spout,  the  molten  crystal  pour; 
Sweet,  as  at  distance  heard  the  cascade's  roar? 
Or  ocean  on  the  lone  rock  faintly  dashing, 
Or  dying  thunders,  when  the  storm  is  o'er, 
And  dim  seen  lightnings  far  away  are  flashing; 
Sweet,  as  when  spring  is  garlanding  the  trees, 
The  birds  in  all  the  flush  of  life  are  singing, 
And  as  the  light  leaves  twinkle  in  the  breeze. 
The  woods  with  melody  and  joy  are  ringing, 
When  beds  of  mint  and  flowering  Gelds  of  clover 
Are  redolent  of  nature's  balmiest  store, 
And  the  cool  wind,  from  rivers,  hurries  over 
And  gathers  sweets,  that  Hybla  never  bore. 

Fair,  as  the  cloudless  moon  o'er  night  presiding, 
When  earth,  and  sea,  and  air  are  hushed  and  still. 


264  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 


Along  the  burning  dome  of  nature  riding, 
Crowning  with  liquid  lustre  rock  and  hill, 
Pencilling  with  her  silver  beam  the  rill, 
That  o'er  the  wave-worn  marble  falling  plays, 
Sheeting  with  light  the  cascade  at  the  mill, 
And  paving  ocean,  with  her  tremulous  rays, 
Through  the  closed  lids  of  dewy  violets  stealing, 
And  gemming,  with  clear  drops,  the  mead  and  grove  ; 
Such  is  the  light,  the  native  heart  of  feeling 
Throws  round  the  stainless  object  of  his  love. 
1 

FLOWER  OF  A  SOUTHERN  GARDEN. 

FLOWER  of  a  southern  garden  newly  blowing, 
Fair  as  a  lily  bending  on  its  stem, 
Whose  curled  and  yellow  locks,  in  ringlets  flowing, 
Need  not  the  lustre  of  a  diadem  ; 
Than  all  the  wealth  of  Ind,  a  brighter  gem ; 
Than  all  the  pearls,  that  bud  in  Oman's  sea, 
Than  all  the  corals  waving  over  them, 
Purer  the  living  light  that  circles  thee; 
And  through  thy  tender  cheek's  transparency 
The  vermeil  tint  of  life  is  lightly  flushing, 
Or,  at  the  faintest  touch  of  modesty, 
In  one  deep  crimson  tide  is  wildly  rushing; 
Like  rose  leaves,  when  the  morning's  breath  is  brushing 
Away  the  seeds  of  pearl  the  night-cloud  shed, 


265 


So  thy  twin  opening  lips  are  purely  blushing, 
Ripe  with  the  softest  dew  and  clearest  red; 
Purer  than  crystal  in  its  virgin  bed, 
Than  fountains  bubbling  in  a  granite  cave, 
Than  sheeted  snow,  that  wraps  a  mountain's  head, 
Or  lilies  glancing  through  a  stainless  wave, 
Purer  the  snow,  that  mantles  o'er  thy  breast, 
And  rests  upon  thy  forehead — O  !  with  thee 
The  hours  might  flit  away  so  sweetly  blest, 
That  time  would  melt  into  eternity. 

Go  with  me  to  the  desert  loneliness 
Of  forest  and  of  mountain — we  will  share 
The  joys,  that  only  purify  and  bless, 
And  make  a  paradise  of  feeling  there ; 
And  daily  thou  shall  be  more  sweet  and  fair, 
And  still  shalt  take  a  more  celestial  hue, 
Like  spirits  melting  in  the  midway  air, 
Till  lost  and  blended  in  the  arch  of  blue : 
Alone,  not  lonely,  we  will  wander  through 
Thickets  of  blooming  shrubs  and  mantling  vines, 
Happy  as  bees  amid  the  summer  dew, 
Or  song-birds,  when  the  fresh  spring  morning  shines  ; 
And  when  departing  light  shall  wing  its  flight, 
And  render  back  the  gift  that  God  has  given, 
Be  then  to  me  a  seraph  form  of  light, 
And  bear  my  fleeting  soul  away  to  Heaven. 

34 


ROSE  OF  MY  HEART. 

ROSE  of  my  heart !  I've  raised  for  thee  a  bower. 
For  thee  have  bent  the  pliant  osier  round, 
For  thee  have  carpeted  with  turf  the  ground, 
And  trained  a  canopy  to  shield  thy  flower, 
So  that  the  warmest  sun  can  have  no  power 
To  dry  the  dew  from  off  thy  leaf,  and  pale 
Thy  living  carmine,  but  a  woven  veil 
Of  full-green  vines  shall  guard  from  heat  and  shower- 
Rose  of  my  heart !  here,  in  this  dim  alcove, 
No  worm  shall  nestle,  and  no  wandering  bee 
Shall  suck  thy  sweets,  no  blight  shall  wither  thee, 
But  thou  shalt  show  the  freshest  hue  of  love. 
Like  the  red  stream,  that  from  Adonis  flowed, 
And  made  the  snow  carnation,  thou  shalt  blush, 
And  fays  shall  wander  from  their  bright  abode 
To  flit  enchanted  round  thy  loaded  bush. 
Bowed  with  thy  fragrant  burden,  thou  shalt  bend 
Thy  slender  twigs  and  thorny  branches  low : 
Vermilion  and  the  purest  foam  shall  blend ; 
These  shall  be  pale,  and  those  in  youth's  first  glow  : 
Their  tints  shall  form  one  sweetest  harmony, 


267 


And  on  some  leaves  the  damask  shall  prevail, 
Whose  colours  melt,  like  the  soft  symphony 
Of  flutes  and  voices  in  the  distant  dale. 
The  bosom  of  that  flower  shall  be  as  white, 
As  hearts  that  love,  and  love  alone,  are  pure, 
Its  tip  shall  blush,  as  beautiful  and  bright, 
As  are  the  gayest  streaks  of  dawning  light, 
Or  rubies  set  within  a  brimming  ewer — 
Rose  of  my  heart !  there  thou  shalt  ever  bloom, 
Safe  in  the  shelter  of  my  perfect  love, 
And  when  they  lay  thee  in  the  dark  cold  tomb, 
I'll  find  thee  out  a  better  bower  above. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  FLOWERS. 

I  AM  the  light  fantastic  queen  of  flowers  ; 
call  the  wind-rose  from  its  bed  of  snow, 
pour  upon  the  springing  turf  soft  showers, 
paint  the  buds  of  jasmine,  when  they  blow, 
give  the  violet  leaf  its  tender  blue, 
dip  its  cup  in  night's  unsullied  tears, 
So  that  it  shines  with  richer  glances  through, 
Like  beauty  heightened  by  a  maiden's  fears; 
Around  the  elm's  green  arch  I  freely  twine 
The  wooing  tendrils  of  the  clasping  vine, 
And  when  the  vernal  air  is  fresh  with  dew, 
And  the  new  sward  with  drops  bedighted  o'er, 


268 

I  lend  the  butter-cup  its  golden  hue, 

That  glitters  like  a  leaf  of  molten  ore; 

I  dress  the  lily  in  its  veil  of  lawn 

Whiter  than  foam  upon  the  crested  wave, 

Pure  as  the  spirit  parted  from  its  grave, 

When  every  stain,  that  earth  had  left,  is  gone, 

Shining  beneath  the  mellow  sun  of  May, 

Like  pearls  fresh-gathered  from  their  glossy  shells. 

Or  tints,  that  on  the  pigeon's  plumage  play, 

When  filled  with  love  his  tender  bosom  swells ; 

I  throw  Aurora  o'er  the  cup  of  gold, 

The  tulip  lifts  to  catch  the  tears  of  Heaven, 

Gay  as  the  cloud,  whose  ever-changing  fold 

Heralds  the  dawn,  and  proudly  curtains  even; 

I  take  the  rainbow,  as  it  glides  away 

To  mingle  with  the  pure  unshaded  sky, 

And  melting  in  one  drop  its  bright  array, 

I  pour  it  in  the  crown-imperial's  eye; 

1  weave  the  silken  fringe,  that,  as  a  vest, 

Mantles  thefleur  de  lys  in  glossy  down, 

I  scatter  gold  spots  on  its  open  breast, 

And  lift  in  slender  points  of  blue  its  crown : 

I  am  the  light  fantastic  queen  of  flowers, 

My  bed  is  in  the  bosom  of  a  rose, 

And  there  I  sweetly  dream  the  moon-light  hours, 

While  vermeil  curtains  round  my  pillow  close. 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  THE  AIR. 

, 

I  AM  the  spirit  of  the  viewless  air, 
Upon  the  rolling  clouds  I  plant  my  throne, 
I  move  serenely,  when  the  fleet  winds  bear 
My  palace  in  its  flight,  from  zone  to  zone; 
High  on  the  mountain  top  I  sit  alone, 
Shrouding  behind  a  veil  of  night  my  form, 
And  when  the  trumpet  of  assault  has  blown, 
Career  upon  the  pinions  of  the  storm; 
By  me  the  gales  of  morning  sweetly  blow, 
Waving,  along  the  bank,  the  bending  flowers; 
'T  is  at  my  touch,  the  clouds  dissolving  flow, 
When  flitting  o'er  the  sky,  in  silent  showers; 
I  send  the  breeze  to  play  among  the  bowers, 
And  curl  the  light-green  ripples  on  the  lake; 
I  call  the  sea-wind  in  the  sultry  hours, 
And  all  his  train  of  gentle  airs  awake ; 
I  lead  the  zephyr  on  the  dewy  lawn 
To  gather  up  the  pearls  that  speck  it  o'er, 
And  when  the  coolness  of  the  night  has  gone, 
I  send  it,  where  the  willows  crown  the  shore; 


270 

I  sit  within  the  circle  of  the  moon, 

When  the  fair  planet  smiles,  and  brightly  throws 

Around  the  radiance  of  her  clearest  noon, 

Till  every  cloud,  that  passes  by  her,  glows, 

When  folds  of  fleecy  vapour  hang  the  sky, 

Borne  on  the  night-wind  through  the  silent  air, 

And  as  they  float,  the  stars  seem  rushing  by, 

And  the  moon  glides  away  in  glory  there; 

I  lead  the  wild  fowl,  when  his  untried  wing 

Boldly  ascends  the  vernal  arch  of  blue, 

Before  him  on  his  airy  path  I  fling 

A  magic  light,  that  safely  guides  him  through; 

When  lost  in  distant  haze,  I  send  his  cry, 

Floating  in  mellow  tones  along  the  wind, 

Then  like  a  speck  of  light  he  hurries  by, 

And  hills,  and  woods,  and  lakes  are  left  behind: 

When  clouds  are  gathering,  or  when  whirlwinds  blow, 

When  Heaven  is  dark  with  storms,  or  brightly  fair, 

Where'er  the  viewless  waves  of  ether  flow, 

Calm,  or  in  tempest  rolling,  I  am  there. 

CATANIA. 

CATANIA  !  on  thy  famed  and  classic  shore 
I  long  to  plant  my  foot,  and  stand  between 
A  paradise,  all  blooming,  gay  and  green, 
And  thy  earth-circled  ocean's  gentle  roar, 
Along  whose  peaceful  waves  the  sun-beams  pour, 


271 

From  stainless  skies,  deep  amber,  and  imbue 

The  ruffled  waters  with  an  iris  hue, 

Like  torch-light  sparkling  in  a  vault  of  ore — 

And  turning  I  behold  thy  fields  of  grain 

Waving  in  yellow  floods  o'er  vale  and  plain, 

And  meadows  mantled  in  a  waste  of  flowers, 

And  hills  whereon  the  golden  orange  glows, 

And  purpling  with  the  ripe  vines  nectared  bowers. 

And  breathing  with  the  myrtle  and  the  rose  ; 

And  higher  still,  flame-crested  Etna  towering, 

A  belt  of  giant  oak  and  chesnut  waves 

In  gloomy  verdure,  like  the  cypress  louring 

With  shade  of  solemn  night  o'er  eastern  graves  ; 

And  loftier,  in  its  virgin  robe  of  white, 

The  snow-cap,  pillowed  on  the  cloudless  sky, 

Seems  like  a  floating  column  of  pure  light, 

And  round  its  pointed  cone  dark  volumes  lie 

Rolled  from  the  volcan's  jaws,  and  sheets  of  flame 

Dart  on  their  path  to  Heaven,  and  flowing  o'er 

The  glowing  torrent  rolls  its  flashing  stream, 

And  from  the  mountain's  womb  comes  forth  a  sullen  roar. 


SONNETS. 

1  STAND  upon  the  mountains,  'mid  a  sea 
Of  rocks,  and  woods,  and  waters,  vales  and  plains, 
Where  smiling  freedom  clad  in  russet  reigns, 
Beneath  a  cloudless,  deep-blue  canopy, 
Whereon,  in  sovereign  pomp  and  majesty, 
The  lord  of  day  ascends  his  noontide  throne, 
And  looks  o'er  all,  himself  unviewed  alone, 
Such  is  the  burning  brightness  of  his  eye  ; 
And  here  with  upward  breast,  and  daring  wing, 
And  glance,  that  dwells  undazzled  on  the  blaze, 
And  finds  its  home  in  those  unclouded  rays, 
From  off  these  rocky  battlements  I  spring, 
And  soaring  to  a  more  etherial  height, 
My  pinions  lift  me  on  to  Heaven's  own  world  of  light. 


MONARCH  of  mountains !  whose  serenest  brow, 
O'er  clouds  and  storms  uplifted,  courts  the  sky, 
And  gazes  on  the  all-pervading  eye, 
To  which,  in  heartfelt  awe,  wide  nations  bow, 


273 

As  Him,  from  whom  their  life  and  being  flow — 
Monarch  of  mountains  !   at  thy  feet  I  lay 
The  tribute  of  my  wonder,  and  there  pay 
The  homage  of  a  soul,  to  whom  the  bow 
Of  glory,  that  encircles  thee,  when  night 
Comes  on  in  iris-splendour,  and  thy  height 
Glows  with  unnumbered  hues  and  seems  on  fire, 
And  o'er  thy  pure  snows  rolls  a  wave  of  light — 
To  whom  these  glories  are  a  high  delight, 
An  inspiration  and  a  deep  desire, 

And  would  be  Heaven,  could  I  but  hear  an  angel's  lyre. 

> 


MY  country — at  the  sound  of  that  dear  name 
The  wanderer's  heart  awakens,  nerved  and  bold ; 
Before  him  stand  the  deeds  and  days  of  old, 
The  tombs  of  ages,  and  the  rolls  of  fame 
Sculptured  on  columns,  where  the  living  flame 
Of  Freedom  lights  anew  its  fading  ray, 
And  glows  in  emulation  of  that  day, 
When  on  their  foes  they  stamped  the  brand  of  shame: 
Yes,  at  the  thought  of  these  bright  trophies  leaps 
The  spirit  in  his  bosom,  and  he  turns 
His  longing  eye  to  where  his  parent  sleeps, 
And  high  on  rocks  his  country's  beacon  burns  ; 
And  though  the  world  be  gayest,  and  sweet  forms 

35 


274  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 


Of  love  and  beauty  call  him,  he  would  fly, 
And  walk  delighted  in  her  mountain  storms. 
And  man  his  soul  with  valour  at  her  cry, 
And  in  the  fiercest  shock  of  battle  die. 


NOW  to  my  task — be  firm — the  work  requires 
Cool  reason,  deep  reflection — and  the  glow 
Of  heart,  that  pours  itself  in  restless  flow, 
Must  sleep,  and  fancy  quench  her  beaming  fires, 
And  all  my  longings,  hopes,  and  wild  desires 
Must  seek  their  slumberous  pillow  and  be  still ; 
But  energy  must  mantle  o'er  my  will, 
And  give  the  patient  toil  that  never  tires  : 
For  Nature  stands  before  me,  and  invites 
My  spirit  to  her  sanctuary,  and  draws 
Aside  her  pictured  veil,  from  where  she  writes 
In  living  letters  her  eternal  laws  ; 
And  as  I  stand  amid  the  countless  wheels, 
That  roll  the  car  of  being  on  its  way, 
A  deep  serene  my  silent  bosom  feels, 
I  seem  a  portion  of  the  viewless  ray, 
And  o'er  me  flows  the  light  of  pure,  unfading  day. 


275 


COME  forth,  fair  waters,  from  the  classic  spring. 
And  let  me  quaff  your  nectar,  that  my  soul 
May  lift  itself  upon  a  bolder  wing, 
And  spurn  awhile  this  being's  base  control. 
How  many  a  cup  of  inspiration  stole 
The  bards  from  out  thy  sparkling  well,  and  sung 
Strains  high,  and  worthy  of  the  kindling  bowl, 
Till  all  Aonia  and  Hesperia  rung. — 
And  on  the  green  isles  of  the  ocean  sprung 
A  wilder  race  of  minstrels,  like  the  storm, 
Which  beats  their  rocky  bulwarks;  there  they  strung 
A  louder  harp,  and  showed  a  prouder  form ; 
And  sending  o'er  the  sea  their  song,  our  shore 
Shall  catch  the  sound,  and  silent  sleep  no  more. 


FAREWELL,  sad  flowers,  that  on  a  desert  blow, 
Farewell!  I  plucked  you  from  the  Muses'  bower, 
And  wove  you  in  a  garland,  which  an  hour 
Might  on  my  aching  eye  enchantment  throw — 
Your  leaves  are  pale  and  withered,  and  your  flow 
Of  perfume  wasted,  your  alluring  power 
Has  vanished  like  the  fleeting  April  shower; 
Too  lovely  flowers  to  spread  your  leaves  below — 
Sweet  flowers!  though  withered,  all  the  joy  I  know, 


276 

Is,  when  I  breathe  your  balm,  your  wreathe  intwine; 
And  earth  can  only  this  delight  bestow, 
That  sometimes  all  your  loveliness  is  mine ; 
And  then  my  frozen  heart  awhile  will  glow, 
And  life  have  moments,  in  its  path,  divine! 


WOULD  I  were  but  a  spirit,  veiled  in  light, 
Wafted  by  winds  of  Heaven,  from  flower  to  flower, 
Catching,  from  bending  blades,  the  crystal  shower, 
When  earth,  impearled,  awakened  new  and  bright; 
Would  I  were  set  to  guide  some  rolling  sphere, 
Amid  the  glories  of  eternal  day, 
Hymning  aloud  a  sweet  celestial  lay, 
That  immortality  alone  can  hear; 
Would  I  were  but  the  messenger  of  love, 
To  bear,  from  soul  to  kindred  soul,  the  sigh, 
To  kiss  the  tears  that  fall  from  beauty's  eye, 
And  watch  the  ring-dove  in  the  lonely  grove; 
Then  sounds  of  melody  might  ever  flow 
From  lips,  that  with  the  fire  of  feeling  glow. 
.*  ' 


AN  OJ)E  TO  MUSIC. 


vuv  pot, 

•  Iliad,  B.  2. 

I. 

DESCEND,  and  with  thy  breath  inspire  my  soul; 
Descend,  and  o'er  my  lyre 
Diffuse  thy  living  fire  ; 

Oh  !  bid  its  chords  a  strain  of  grandeur  roll  : 
Touched  by  thy  hand  their  trembling  accents  ring  ; 
Borne  on  thy  sounding  pinions  through  the  sky, 
To  Heaven  the  notes  in  burning  ardour  spring, 
And  as  the  tones  in  softened  whispers  die, 
Love  seems  to  flutter  round  on  his  Aurora-wing. 

II. 

Oh  !  Muse,  who  erst  in  Tempe's  flowery  vale 
Wert  wont  to  tune  thy  harp  and  breathe  thy  soul, 
And  o'er  Peneus  pour  thy  dying  wail  ; 
Who,  when  loud  roaring  thunders  rocked  the  pole, 
Burst  from  the  dell  and  'mid  the  growling  storm 
Involved  in  lurid  gloom  thy  shining  form  ; 
And  while  the  tempest  o'er  Olympus  frowned, 
And  lightnings  glittered  round  the  throne  of  Jove, 
Thy  lyre,  with  hurried  notes  and  awful  sound,    ^grove. 
Seemed  like  the  voice  that  rung  through  dark  Dodona's 


278 

III. 

Reclined  amid  the  woods  that  waved  around 
Castalia's  crystal  fount  and  murmuring  stream, 
While  ever  blooming  flowerets  decked  the  ground, 
And  brightened  in  the  summer's  spftened  beam, 
Thy  virgins  nine,  with  lyres  of  burnished  gold, 
Around  thy  Sylvan  throne  their  descant  rolled, 
And  through  the  mountain  glen — the  pensive  shade, 
A  mellow  echo  would  the  strain  prolong, 
And  as  around  the  hollow  cliffs  it  played,  (song. 

A  thousand  heavenly  harps  seemed  answering  to  the 

IV. 

Urania,  o'er  her  star-bespangled  lyre, 
With  touch  of  majesty  diffused  her  soul; 
A  thousand  tones,  that  in  the  breast  inspire 
Exalted  feelings,  o'er  the  wires  'gan  roll — 
She  sang  of  night  that  clothed  the  infant  world, 
In  strains  as  solemn  as  its  dark  profound — 
How  at  the  call  of  Jove  the  mist  unfurled, 
And  o'er  the  swelling  vault — the  glowing  sky, 
The  new-born  stars  hung  out  their  lamps  on  high, 
And  rolled  their  mighty  orbs  to  music's  sweetest  sound. 

V. 

Majestic  Clio  touched  her  silver  wire, 
And  through  time's  lengthened  vista  moved  a  train, 
In  dignity  sublime  ; — the  patriot's  fire 
Kindled  its  torch  in  heaven's  resplendent  ray, 
And  'mid  contention  rose  to  Heaven  again. 


279 


In  brightness  glowing  like  the  orb  of  day, 
The  warrior  drove  his  chariot  o'er  the  slain, 
And  dyed  its  wheels  in  gore ; — the  battle's  yell, 
The  dying  groan,  the  shout  of  victory — 
Now  like  the  tempest-gust  in  horror  swell, 
Now  like  the  sighing  breeze  in  silence  melt  away. 

VI. 

But  when  Erato  brushed  her  flowery  lute, 
What  strains  of  sweetness  whispered  in  the  wind  ! 
Soft  as  at  evening  when  the  shepherd's  flute 
To  tones  of  melting  love  alone  resigned, 
Breathes  through  the  windings  of  the  silent  vale ; 
Complaining  accents  tremble  on  the  gale, 
Or  notes  of  ecstacy  serenely  roll. 
So  when  the  smiling  muse  of  Cupid  sung, 
Her  melody  sighed  out  the  sorrowing  soul, 
Or  o'er  her  silken  chords  sweet  notes  of  gladness  rung. 

VII. 

But  oh  Melpomene  !  thy  lyre  of  wo — 
To  what  a  mournful  pitch  its  keys  were  strung, 
And  when  thou  badest  its  tones  of  sorrow  flow, 
Each  weeping  Muse,  enamoured,  o'er  thee  hung: 
How  sweet — how  heavenly  sweet,  when  faintly  rose 
The  song  of  grief,  and  at  its  dying  close 
The  soul  seemed  melting  in  the  trembling  breast ; 
The  eye  in  dews  of  pity  flowed  away, 
And  every  heart,  by  sorrow's  load  opprest, 
To  infant  softness  sunk,  as  breathed  thy  mournful  lay. 


280 

VIII. 

But  when,  Calliope,  thy  loud  harp  rang — • 
In  Epic  grandeur  rose  the  lofty  strain  ; 
The  clash  of  arms,  the  trumpet's  awful  clang 
Mixed  with  the  roar  of  conflict  on  the  plain ; 
The  ardent  warrior  bade  his  coursers  wheel, 
Trampling  in  dust  the  feeble  and  the  brave, 
Destruction  flashed  upon  his  glittering  steel, 
While  round  his  brow  encrimsoned  laurels  waved, 
And  o'er  him  shrilly  shrieked  the  demon  of  the  grave. 

IX. 

Euterpe  glanced  her  fingers  o'er  her  lute, 
And  lightly  waked  it  to  a  cheerful  strain, 
Then  laid  it  by,  and  took  the  mellow  flute, 
Whose  softly  flowing  warble  filled  the  plain : 
It  was  a  lay  that  roused  the  drooping  soul, 
And  bade  the  tear  of  sorrow  cease  to  flow  ; 
From  shady  woods  the  Nymphs  enchanted  stole, 
While  laughing  Cupids  bent  the  silver  bow, 
Fluttering  like  fays  that  flit  in  Luna's  softened  glow. 

X. 

The  rage  of  Pindar  filled  the  sounding  air, 
As  Polyhymnia  tried  her  skill  divine  ; 
The  shaggy  lion  roused  him  from  his  lair, 
And  bade  his  blood-stained  eyes  in  fury  shine  ; 
The  famished  eagle  poised  his  waving  wings, 
Whetting  his  thirsty  beak — while  murder  rose, 
With  hand  that  grasps  a  dirk,  with  eye  that  glows 


281 

In  gloomy  madness  o'er  the  throne  of  kings, 

And,  as  she  bade  her  tones  of  horror  swell, 

The  demon  shook  his  steel  with  wild  exulting  yell. 

XL 

How  light  the  strain  when,  decked  in  vernal  bloom, 
Thalia  tuned  her  lyre  of  melody, 
And  when  Terpsichore,  with  iris-plume, 
Bade  o'er  her  lute  her  rosy  fingers  fly  ; 
5T  was  pleasure  all — the  fawns  in  mingled  choirs, 
Glanced  on  the  willing  nymphs  their  wanton  fires. 
Joy  shook  his  glittering  pinions  as  he  flew  ; 
The  shout  of  rapture  and  the  song  of  bliss, 
The  sportive  titter  and  the  melting  kiss, 
All  blended  with  the  smile,  that  shone  like  early  dew. 

XII. 

Their  music  ceased — and  rising  from  thy  throne, 
Thou  took'st  thy  harp  that  on  the  laurel  hung, 
And  bending  o'er  its  chords  to  try  their  tone, 
A  faintly  trembling  murmur  o'er  them  rung  : 
At  each  sweet  sound  that  broke  upon  the  ear, 
Started  the  listening  throng,  and  gazed  and  smiled  j 
The  satyr  leaning  on  his  ivy  spear, 
Peeped  forth  delighted  from  the  flowery  wild, 
And,  while  thou  tunedst  the  keys,  the  raptured  soul 
Hung  o'er  the  flying  tones  that  on  the  zephyrs  stole. 

XIII. 

This  prelude  o'er,  a  solemn  strain  arose, 
As  strayed  thy  fingers  slowly  o'er  the  wire  : 

36 


282 

How  grand  the  diapason — and  its  close, 
As  when  to  Heaven  the  organ  notes  aspire. 
And  through  the  gloomy  aisle,  the  lofty  nave, 
Swell  out  the  anthem  pealing  o'er  the  grave — 
Low  muttering  thunders  seemed  to  roar  around,. 
And  rising  whirlwinds  whispered  in  the  ear; 
The  warrior  started  at  the  solemn  sound, 
Half  drew  his  sword  and  slowly  shook  his  spear ; 
The  tiger  couched  and  gazed  with  burning  eye, 
In  horror  growled,  and  lashed  his  waving  tail ; 
The  serpent  rustled  like  the  dying  gale, 
And  bade  his  tongue  in  purple  ardour  fly, 
Quivering  like  lurid  flames  beneath  the  midnight  sky. 

XIV. 

The  fury  of  the  storm  is  howling  by^ 
The  whirlwinds  rush,  the  bursting  thunders  roll, 
Grim  horror  settles  o'er  the  lowering  sky, 
And  ruin  flashes  on  the  shuddering  soul : 
So  burst  with  sudden  swell  thy  awful  strain, 
And  every  blast  of  war  was  on  the  gale  ; 
The  maddening  warriors  mingled  on  the  plain, 
Loud  rose  the  yell,  and  rang  the  clanging  mail ; 
The  victor's  dripping  chariot  crushed  the  slain  5 
The  raging  tiger  with  terrific  roar 
Sprang  on  his  prey,  and  dyed  his  claws  in  gore  ; 
Rising  on  spires  that  shone  with  varied  hue — 
Bright  crimson,  burnished  gold,  and  livid  blue, 
The  serpent  hissing  in  his  burning  ire, 
Glanced  on  his  flying  foe,  and  fixed  his  tooth  of  fire. 


283 

XV. 

Struck  by  thy  bounding  quill,  a  mellow  lay 

Rang  o'er  the  harp  and  softly  died  away : 

As  poured  the  descant  in  the  warrior's  ear, 

The  roar  of  conflict  ceased  along  the  plain, 

The  foes  exulting  trampled  on  the  slain, 

And  shook  in  mingled  dance  the  glimmering  spear ; 

In  listless  ease  reclined,  the  tiger  lay, 

And  fondly  sported  with  his  bleeding  prey ; 

At  times  the  serpent  waved  his  quivering  tail, 

Then  coiled  his  folds  and  all  to  peace  resigned, 

Listened  the  strain  that  sported  in  the  wind, 

And  hissed  his  pleasure,  shrill  as  sounds  the  infant's  wail. 

XVI. 

At  last  a  murmur  trembled  on  the  lyre, 
Soft  as  the  dirge  that  echoes  o'er  the  bier  : 
Robbed  of  his  spirit  bold,  his  daring  fire — 
The  vanquished  warrior  dropped  a  tender  tear, 
Leant  on  his  bloody  sword  and  breathed  a  sigh  5 
And  as  the  tiger  spread  his  claws  of  gold, 
Fawned  round  thy  form  and  purred  his  ecstacy — 
His  emerald  eyes  in  languid  softness  rolled ; 
The  serpent  falling  gently  from  his  spire, 
Glided  with  easy  sweep  along  the  plain, 
In  graceful  windings  wantoned  round  thy  lyre, 
And  kissed  the  trembling  chord  that  breathed  the  sooth 
ing  strain. 


THE  JUDGMENT. 


HARK !  the  Judgment  trump  has  blown 
How  it  rolls  along  the  air ! 
Time  and  Hope  forever  flown, 
Sinners  for  your  doom  prepare. 

Slowly  o'er  the  lurid  sky 
Rolls  a  dark  terrific  storm, 
Showing  to  the  startled  eye 
On  its  skirts  a  giant  form. 

Hark  !  the  rattling  hail  descends, 
See!  the  forky  lightnings  glow, 
As  that  form  in  anger  bends, 
Frowning  on  the  world  below. 

Riding  on  the  whirlwind's  wing, 
Canopied  in  clouds  he  flies ; 
With  his  voice  the  mountains  ring, 
With  his  presence  glow  the  skies. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 


285 


Earthquakes  roar  and  rock  the  ground. 
Tyrants  bow  before  his  rod, 
Nations  tremble  at  the  sound, 
When  they  hear  the  voice  of  God. 

Lo !  the  God he  comes  in  wrath — 

Vengeance  drives  his  iron  car, 
Lightnings  pave  his  flaming  path, 
As  he  hurries  to  the  war. 

"  I  have  waited  long  and  spared 
Ingrates,  on  my  bounty  fed — 
Now  my  red  right  arm  is  barbed, 
Now  your  day  of  hope  is  fled. 

I  have  bid  my  sun  to  shine, 
I  have  bid  my  dews  to  fall, 
I  have  sent  my  love  divine — 
You  have  spurned  and  wasted  all. 

Now  the  day  of  trial  o'er, 
I  my  fatal  shaft  let  fly; 
Mercy  can  endure  no  more — 
Time  must  end  and  you  must  die." 

Ripe  with  sin  the  harvest  bends — 
See!  the  mighty  reaper  stand, 
There  his  burning  scythe  he  sends 
And  with  fury  sweeps  the  land. 


86  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

See!  the  fields  and  forests  glow, 
See!  the  mounting  flame  aspire, 
Hark !  the  sinner's  yell  of  wo, 
Gasping  in  a  world  of  fire. 

Helpless  wretches !  whither  fly  ? 
In  what  den  a  shelter  find? 
See !  the  blasting  bolt  is  nigh, 
Flame  before,  and  wrath  behind. 

Like  the  chaflf  by  whirlwinds  driven, 
Like  the  earthquake-shattered  rock, 
Like  the  oak  by  tempest  riven. 
Torn  and  splintered  with  the  shock; 

So  they  fly,  a  quivering  throng, 
Urged,  by  shame,  despair  and  fear ; 
Hurried  by  the  sword  along, 
Flashing,  falling  on  their  rear. 

Hear  the  crackling  whirlwind  roar ;. 
Sheets  of  flame  ascend  the  sky ; 
Now  the  feeble  cry  is  o'er, 
Quenched  in  dark  eternity. 

Now  the  hills  and  mountains  melt, 
Rocks  in  flashing  torrents  run, 
To  earth's  heart  the  rage  is  felt — 
Now  the  work  of  wrath  is  done. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  287 

Curling  like  a  lettered  scroll, 
Crisped  and  crackling  in  the  flame, 
Now  Heaven's  vaulted  arches  roll; 
Falls  the  universal  frame. 

Now  the  circling  blue  has  fled, 
Suns  wax  faint  and  stars  grow  dim, 
Heaven  and  earth  away  have  sped, 
Time's  last  trump  their  dying  hymn. 

Matter  now  has  ceased  to  be, 

All  is  pure  ethereal  light; 

Saints,  from  all  that  bound  them  free, 

To  the  empyrean  wing  their  flight. 

In  that  fount  their  beings  blend, 

All  their  thoughts  their  views  the  same; 

See !  creation's  essence  end 

In  one  flood  of  viewless  flame. 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  THE  BRAVE. 

THOUGH  furled  be  the  banner  of  blood  on  the  plain. 
And  rusted  the  sabre  once  crimsoned  with  gore; 
Though  hushed  be  the  ravens  that  croaked  o'er  the  slain, 

I 

And  calmed  into  silence  the  battle's  loud  roar; 
Though  Peace  with  her  rosy  smile  gladden  the  vales. 
And  commerce  unshackled  dance  over  the  wave; 


Though  music  and  song  may  enliven  the  gales, 
And  Joy  crown  with  roses  and  myrtle  the  brave; 
Like  spirits  that  start  from  the  sleep  of  the  dead, 
Our  heroes  shall  rouse — when  the  larum  shall  blow; 
Then  Freedom's  broad  flag  on  the  wind  shall  be  spread. 
And  Valour's  sword  flash  in  the  face  of  the  foe. 
Our  Eagle  shall  rise  'mid  the  whirlwinds  of  war, 
And  dart  through  the  dun-cloud  of  battle  his  eye — 
Shall  spread  his. wide  wings  on  the  tempest  afar 
O'er  spirits  of  valour  that  conquer  or  die. 
And  ne'er  shall  the  rage  of  the  conflict  be  o'er, 
And  ne'er  shall  the  warm  blood  of  life  cease  to  flow. 
And  still  'mid  the  smoke  of  the  battle  shall  soar 
Our  Eagle — till  scattered  and  fled  be  the  foe. 
When  peace  shall  disarm  war's  dark  brow  of  its  frown, 
And  roses  shall  bloom  on  the  soldier's  rude  grave — 
Then  Honour  shall  weave  of  the  laurel  a  crown, 
That  Beauty  shall  bind  on  the  brow  of  the  brave. 


LIBERTY  TO  ATHENS. 

THE  flag  of  freedom  floats  once  more 
Around  the  lofty  Parthenon  ; 
It  waves,  as  waved  the  palm  of  yore, 
In  days  departed  long  and  gone; 
As  bright  a  glory,  from  the  skies, 
Pours  down  its  light  around  those  towers, 


i 


.no 


And  once  again  the  Greeks  arise, 
As  in  their  country's  noblest  hours ; 
Their  swords  are  girt  in  virtue's  cause, 
Minerva's  sacred  hill  is  free — 
O  !  may  she  keep  her  equal  laws, 
While  man  shall  live,  and  time  shall  be. 

The  pride  of  all  her  shrines  went  down ; 
The  Goth,  the  Frank,  the  Turk,  had  reft 
The  laurel  from  her  civic  crown; 
Her  helm  by  many  a  sword  was  cleft : 
She  lay  among  her  ruins  low — 
Where  grew  the  palm,  the  cypress  rose, 
And  crushed  and  bruised  by  many  a  blow. 
She  cowered  beneath  her  savage  foes; 
»-But  now  again  she  springs  from  earth, 
Her  loud,  awakening  trumpet  speaks; 
She  rises  in  a  brighter  birth, 
And  sounds  redemption  to  the  Greeks. 

It  is  the  classic  jubilee — 
Their  servile  years  have  rolled  away; 
The  clouds  that  hovered  o'er  them  flee, 
They  hail  the  dawn  of  freedom's  day; 
From  Heaven  the  golden  light  descends, 
The  times  of  old  are  on  the  wing, 
And  glory  there  her  pinion  bends, 
And  beauty  wakes  a  fairer  spring; 

37 


320 

The  hills  of  Greece,  her  rocks,  her  waves, 
Are  all  in  triumph's  pomp  arrayed; 
A  light  that  points  their  tyrants'  graves, 
Plays  round  each  bold  Athenian's  blade* 

The  Parthenon,  the  sacred  shrine, 
Where  wisdom  held  her  pure  abode : 
The  hill  of  Mars,  where  light  divine 
Proclaimed  the  true,  but  unknown  God; 
Where  justice  held  unyielding  sway, 
And  trampled  all  corruption  down, 
And  onward  took  her  lofty  way 
To  reach  at  truth's  unfading  crown : 
The  rock,  where  liberty  was  full, 
Where  eloquence  her  torrents  rolled, 
And  loud,  against  the  despot's  rule, 
A  knell  the  patriot's  fury  tolled : 
The  stage,  whereon  the  drama  spake, 
In  tones,  that  seemed  the  words  of  Heaven. 
Which  made  the  wretch  in  terror  shake, 
As  by  avenging  furies  driven : 
The  groves  and  gardens,  where  the  fire 
Of  wisdom,  as  a  fountain,  burned, 
And  every  eye,  that  dared  aspire 
To  truth,  has  long  in  worship  turned: 
The  halls  and  porticoes,  where  trod 
The  moral  sage,  severe,  unstained, 
And  where  the  intellectual  God 
In  all  the  light  of  science  reigned : 


321 


The  schools,  where  rose  in  symmetry 
The  simple,  but  majestic  pile, 
Where  marble  threw  its  roughness  by, 
To  glow,  to  frown,  to  weep,  to  smile, 
Where  colours  made  the  canvas  live, 
Where  music  rolled  her  flood  along, 
And  all  the  charms,  that  art  can  give, 
Were  blent  with  beauty,  love,  and  song: 
The  port,  from  whose  capacious  womb 
Her  navies  took  their  conquering  road, 
The  heralds  of  an  awful  doom 
To  all,  who  would  not  kiss  her  rod: 
On  these  a  dawn  of  glory  springs, 
These  trophies  of  her  brightest  fame ; 
Away  the  long-chained  city  flings 
Her  weeds,  her  shackles,  and  her  shame ; 
Again  her  ancient  souls  awake, 
Harmodius  bares  anew  his  sword; 
Her  sons  in  wrath  their  fetters  break, 
And  freedom  is  their  only  lord. 


THE  SENATE  OF  CALLIMACHL*     ODE. 

IN  Callimachi's  halls  are  met 
The  chieftains  of  a  noble  line ; 
The  father's  spirit  lingers  yet, 
To  aid  them  in  their  high  design; 
The  spirit,  that,  in  ancient  days, 
Called  forth  the  boldest  Spartan  band, 
With  their  own  shields  and  breasts  to  raise 
A  living  bulwark  round  their  land. 

The  sound,  that  erst  in  Hellas  rang, 
When  war  his  brazen  trumpet  blew, 
When  shields  returned  the  hollow  clang, 
And  ready  feet  to  battle  flew; 
That  sound  in  Sparta's  vale  is  raised ; 
The  Turkish  bar  and  bolt  are  riven; 
The  fire,  that  erst  on  (Eta  blazed, 
In  bolder  eddies  curls  to  Heaven. 


*  So  it  was  written  in  the  first  accouats  of  the  Peloponnesian  Sen 
ate.  The  true  name  is  Calamata.  I  prefer  the  name  in  the  text.  If 
has  in  it  au  omen.  K*Xw  M«£»!  (glorious  victory.) 


I 


291 


That  flame  o'er  Spartan  valour  burned, 
The  brave  three-hundred's  funeral  pyre  ! 
Though  now  in  Grecian  earth  inurned, 
Their  fame  shall  Grecian  hearts  inspire  ; 
It  blazes  on  the  sacred  rock, 
It  flashes  o'er  the  hallowed  glen  ; 
Advance  ye  Greeks  !  and  breast  the  shock, 
And  show  the  world,  ye  still  are  men. 

The  sons  of  sires,  who  knew  no  fear, 
When  threatening  foemen  scaled  their  walls, 
The  light  shall  see,  the  sound  shall  hear, 
And  throng  to  Callimachi's  halls  : 
The  altar  of  their  country  burns  5 
They  pledge  their  oath  to  liberty  ; 
Their  fathers  answer  from  their  urns, 
"  Be  like  us,  sons,  and  ye  are  free." 

On  old  Messene's  soil  are  met 

The  sons  of  Aristomenes  ; 

Your  ancient  wrongs  and  feuds  forget 

In  wrongs  so  foul,  so  deep,  as  these  : 

A  new  Aristodemus  flings 

His  iron  gauntlet  on  the  foe  ; 

At  once,  a  nation's  valour  springs 

To  deal  the  liberating  blow. 

Who  would  not  glow  in  such  a  cause  ? 
Who — not  exult  in  such  a  name  ? 


292 


Blest  be  the  sword,  each  Maynote  draws 
To  lop  away  his  bonds  and  shame  : 
The  fire  is  kindled  in  his  soul ; 
The  spirit  flashes  in  his  eye  ; 
A  nation's  blended  voices  roll 
The  vow  of  freedom  to  the  sky. 

Leap  from  your  tombs,  ye  men,  who  stood 

At  Pylae,  and  at  Marathon; 

The  sire  shall  find  his  boiling  blood 

Throb  in  the  bosom  of  his  son  : 

Haste  demi-gods  !  with  shield  and  spear. 

And  hover  o'er  the  coming  fight ; 

O  !  let  the  rocks  of  Sparta  hear 

The  gathering  word,  "  Unite  !  unite  !" 


THE  GREEK  EMIGRANT'S  SONG, 

NOW  launch  the  boat  upon  the  wave — 
The  wind  is  blowing  off  the  shore — 
I  will  not  live,  a  cowering  slave, 
In  these  polluted  islands,  more — 
Beyond  the  wild,  dark-heaving  sea, 
There  is  a  better  home  for  me. 

The  wind  is  blowing  off  the  shore, 
And  out  to  sea  the  streamers  fly — 


My  music  is  the  dashing  roar 

My  canopy  the  stainless  sky — 

It  bends  above  so  fair  a  blue, 

That  Heaven  seems  opening  on  my  view. 

I  will  not  live,  a  cowering  slave, 
Though  all  the  charms  of  life  may  shine 
Around  me,  and  the  land,  the  wave, 
And  sky  be  drawn  in  tints  divine — 
Give  lowering  skies  and  rocks  to  me, 
If  there  my  spirit  can  be  free. 

Sweeter,  than  spicy  gales,  that  blow 
From  orange  groves  with  wooing  breath, 
The  winds  may  from  these  islands  flow — 
But  'tis  an  atmosphere  of  death ; 
The  lotus,  which  transformed  the  brave 
And  haughty  to  a  willing  slave. 

Softer,  than  Minder's  winding  stream, 
The  wave  may  ripple  on  this  coast; 
And  brighter,  than  the  morning  beam, 
In  golden  swell,  be  round  it  tost — 
Give  me  a  rude  and  stormy  shore, 
So  power  can  never  threat  me  more. 

Brighter  than  all  the  tales,  they  tell 
Of  eastern  pomp  and  pageantry, 


294  PERCIVAL'S  POKMS. 

Our  sunset  skies  in  glory  swell, 
Hung  round  with  glowing  tapestry — 
The  horrors  of  a  wintry  storm 
Swell  brighter  o'er  a  freeman's  form. 

The  spring  may  here  with  autumn  twine, 
And  both  combined  may  rule  the  year, 
And  fresh-blown  flowers  and  racy  wine 
In  frosted  clusters  still  be  near — 
Dearer  the  wild  and  snowy  hills, 
Where  hale  and  ruddy  freedom  smiles. 

Beyond  the  wild,  dark-heaving  sea, 

And  ocean's  stormy  vastness  o'er, 

There  is  a  better  home  for  me, 

A  welcomer  and  dearer  shore; 

There  hands,  arid  hearts,  and  souls,  are  twined, 

And  free  the  man,  and  free  the  mind. 


ODE  TO  FREEDOM. 

SPIRIT  of  the  days  of  old! 
Ere  the  generous  heart  grew  cold; 
When  the  pulse  of  life  was  strong, 
And  the  breath  of  vengeance  long ; 
When,  with  jealous  sense,  the  heart 
Felt  the  least  indignant  smart; 


1  m 


295 

When,  alive  at  every  pore, 
Honour  no  injustice  bore, 
But,  like  lions  on  their  prey, 
Sprang  and  washed  the  stain  away; 
When  the  patriot's  blood  was  shed 
At  the  shrine,  where  valour  bled; 
When  the  bard,  with  kindling  song, 
Roused  them  to  avenge  their  wrong; 
When  the  thought  of  insult,  deep 
In  the  heart,  could  never  sleep, 
But,  though  cherished  many  a  day, 
Still,  at  last,  it  burst  its  way, 
Rolling  with  impetuous  tide, 
Till  the  foeman  crouched  or  died. 

Spirit  of  the  days  of  yore! 
When  the  lofty  hero  bore, 
On  his  brow,  and  on  his  crest, 
Signs  of  thought,  that  could  not  rest; 
When  the  eager,  active  soul 
Spurned,  and  broke  through  all  control. 
Nature  was  his  only  rule, 
Feeling  taught  his  only  school; 
When  his  vigorous  frame  was  nursed, 
By  no  arts,  that  poison,  cursed; 
When  his  heart  was  firm  to  will, 
And  his  hand  was  strong  to  kill; 
When  he  sternly  struggled  through 
All,  that  he  resolved  to  do; 


296 


When  he  recked  not,  if  his  path 
Smiled  in  peace,  or  frowned  in  wrath; 
When  he  started  at  the  call, 
Country  gave  and  left  his  all, 
Onward  trod  to  front  the  foe, 
Nerved  to  deal  the  deadly  blow; 
When  the  fight,  to  him,  was  play; 
When  he  cared  not,  if  his  way 
Led  to  victory,  or  the  grave — 
Either  fate  becomes  the  brave : 
Days  of  strength  gigantic !  fled, 
Valour  sleeps,  and  fame  is  dead. 

Spirit  of  the  bold  and  free! 
Mountain  breath  of  liberty; 
Parent  of  a  hardy  breed, 
Fiery  as  the  Arab  steed; 
Master  of  the  mighty  charm; 
Knitter  of  the  brawny  arm, 
Of  the  knee  that  cannot  kneel, 
Heart  of  oak,  and  nerve  of  steel; 
Ruler  of  the  craggy  wild ; 
On  a  throne  of  granite  piled, 
Like  a  giant,  altar  thou 
Biddest  all,  who  love  thee,  bow, 
Bend  the  neck,  and  fold  the  knee, 
To  no  conqueror,  but  thee; 
In  that  hold  thou  bidst  them  wait, 
Till  some  proud,  ambitious  state, 


297 


Marching  in  the  pomp  of  war, 

Spread  its  flaunting  banner  far, 

And  with  high  and  threat'ning  breath. 

Call  to  slavery,  or  death; 

Then  thou  bidst  them  gird  the  brand, 

Plant  the  foot,  and  raise  the  hand, 

Draw  the  panting  nostril  wide, 

And  with  stern  and  stately  stride. 

Forward,  like  the  eagle's  wing, 

On  the  proud  invader  spring, 

And  in  one  resistless  rush, 

All  his  power  and  splendour  crush. 

Spirit  of  the  great  and  good ! 
Such  as,  in  Athenae,  stood, 
Stern  injustice,  on  the  rock, 
Moveless  at  the  people's  shock. 
And  when  civil  tempest  raged. 
And  intestine  war  was  waged, 
With  serene,  but  awful  sway, 
Rolled  the  maddening  tide  away: 
Such  as  met  at  Pylae's  wall, 
Ere  that  glorious  freedom's  fall — 
When  the  life  of  Greece  was  young, 
Like  the  sun  from  ocean  sprung, 
And  the  warm  and  lifted  soul 
Marching  onward  to  its  goal : 
$8 


298 

Such  as  at  those  holy  gates, 
Bulwark  of  the  banded  states, 
With  the  hireling  Persian  strove, 
In  the  high  and  ardent  love, 
Souls  that  cannot  stoop  to  shame, 
Bear  to  freedom's  sacred  name  : 
Such  as  with  the  Saxon  flew, 
Ever  to  their  country  true, 
9       From  the  rock,  the  wood,  the  fen, 

From  the  cavern  and  the  den, 
_  .   ^1  Eager  to  the  field  of  fight, 

Like  a  cloud  that  comes  by  night, 
Tore  away,  at  once,  the  chain 
Fastened  by  the  robber  Dane, 
Drove  him  headlong  from  that  shore, 
And  embalmed  his  host  in  gore; 
Then  secured  their  country's  cause, 
With  a  bond  of  equal  laws, 
And  bequeathed  the  sacred  trust, 
When  their  bones  should  fall  in  dust, 
To  that  island  race,  who  bear 
Light,  and  warmth,  and  glory,  where 
Ocean's  unchained  billows  roll 
From  the  mid-day  to  the  pole ; 
And  to  that  more  daring  shoot, 
Bent  with  flowers,  and  promised  fruit, 
Who  have  dared,  beyond  the  sea, 
To  assert  their  liberty, 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  299 

Who,  upon  the  forted  hill, 
Braved  a  tyrant  father's  will, 
Down  the  bloody  gauntlet  threw, 
Grasped  and  snapped  the  links  in  two  ; 
And  unshackled  ventured  forth, 
Noblest  of  the  sons  of  earth. 

Spirit  of  the  stirring  blood, 
Rolling  in  an  even  flood 
Through  the  hale  and  ruddy  cheek ; 
Scorner  of  the  pale  and  weak, 
Who  in  festering  cities  crawl, 
Victims  of  a  sordid  thrall, 
And  for  ever  draw  their  breath, 
Lingering  on  the  brink  of  death  : 
But  to  thee  the  giant  limb, 
Strong  to  leap,  to  run,  to  swim, 
Strong  to  guide  the  plough  or  brand, 
Guard,  or  free,  or  till  their  land; 
But  to  thee  the  godlike  frame, 
Such  as  puts  our  dwarfs  to  shame, 
Firm,  erect,  and  fair,  as  first 
Adam  from  his  Maker  burst, 
And  exulting  leaped  to  see 
His  angelic  symmetry; 
But  to  thee  the  eagle  eye, 
Lifted  to  its  parent  sky, 


300  PE-H.C1VAI/S    POEMS. 

Drinking  in  the  living  stream, 
And  again,  with  ardent  beam. 
Sending  all  its  fires  abroad, 
Like  the  language  of  a  god ; 
But  to  thee  the  mighty  brow, 
Fixed  to  dare,  unused  to  bow, 
Now  in  placid  kindness  bright, 
Like  a  rock  in  evening's  light, 
Then  with  anger's  wrinkled  frown, 
Gathered  eyebrows  lowering  down, 
Awful,  as  the  storm,  whose  fold 
Round  a  columned  Alp  is  rolled; 
But  to  thee  the  mind  of  fire, 
Toil  can  never  damp,  or  tire, 
Glancing  like  a  sun-beam,  through 
Nature  with  a  spirit's  view, 
And  from  out  its  choicest  store, 
In  its  fulness  flowing  o'er, 
Sending,  like  a  bolt,  the  flow 
Of  thought  upon  the  crowd  below. 

Healthful  Spirit!  at  this  hour, 

There  are  haunts,  where  thou  hast  power. 

Haunts,  where  thou  shalt  ever  be, 

As  thou  ever  hast  been,  free ; 

Where  the  stream  of  life  is  led 

Stainless  in  its  virgin  bed, 


301 


And  its  magic  fire  is  still 

Blazing  on  its  holy  hill. 

There  are  mountains,  there  are  storms, 

Where  thou  feedest  thy  hives  and  swarms, 

Whence  thou  sendest  them,  to  restore 

Virtue,  where  it  dwells  no  more ; 

Safe  in  those  embattled  rocks, 

Life  its  native  vigour  locks, 

And  its  kindling  energy 

Lives,  and  moves,  and  feels  in  thee ; 

In  those  bulwarks  is  our  trust, 

For  the  boundless  power  is  just, 

Nor  wilt  thou,  from  earth,  arise, 

Linked  with  justice,  to  the  skies, 

But  below,  with  mercy,  dwell, 

Till  the  world  shall  hear  its  knell. 


A  PLATONIC  BACCHANAL  SONG, 

FILL  high  the  bowl  of  life  for  me — 
Let  roses  mantle  round  its  brim, 
While  heart  is  warm,  and  thought  is  free, 
Ere  beauty's  light  is  waning  dim — 
Fill  high  with  brightest  draughts  of  soul, 
And  let  it  flow  with  feeling  o'er, 
And  love,  the  sparkling  cup,  he  stole 
From  Heaven,  to  give  it  briskness,  pour. 


t 


102  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

O  !  fill  the  bowl  of  life  for  me, 

And  wreath  its  dripping  brim  with  flowers, 

And  I  will  drink,  as  lightly  flee 

Our  early,  imreturning  hours. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  of  life  with  wine, 

That  swelled  the  grape  of  Eden's  grove, 

Ere  human  life,  in  its  decline, 

Had  strowed  with  thorns  the  path  of  love — 

Fill  high  from  virtue's  crystal  fount, 

That  springs  beneath  the  throne  of  Heaven, 

And  sparkles  brightly  o'er  the  mount, 

From  which  our  fallen  souls  were  driven. 

O  !  fill  the  bowl  of  life  with  wine, 

The  wine,  that  charmed  the  gods  above, 

And  round  its  brim  a  garland  twine, 

That  blossomed  in  the  bower  of  love. 

Fill  high  the  bowl  of  life  with  spirit, 
Drawn  from  the  living  sun  of  soul, 
And  let  the  wing  of  genius  bear  it, 
Deep-glowing,  like  a  kindled  coal — 
Fill  high  from  that  ethereal  treasure, 
And  let  me  quaff  the  flowing  fire, 
And  know  awhile  the  boundless  pleasure, 
That  Heaven-lit  fancy  can  inspire. 
O  !  fill  the  bowl  of  life  with  spirit, 
And  give  it  brimming  o'er  to  me, 
And  as  I  quaff,  I  seem  to  inherit 
The  glow  of  immortality. 


303 


Fill  high  the  bowl  of  life  with  thought 
From  that  unfathomable  well, 
Which  sages  long  and  long  have  sought 
To  sound,  but  none  its  depths  can  tell — 
Fill  high  from  that  dark  stainless  wave, 
Which  mounts  and  flows  for  ever  on, 
And  rising  proudly  o'er  the  grave, 
There  finds  its  noblest  course  begun. 
O  !  fill  the  bowl  of  life  with  thought, 
And  I  will  drink  the  bumper  up, 
And  find,  whate'er  my  wish  had  sought, 
In  that,  the  purest,  sweetest  cup* 


HERE'S  to  her,  who  wore 
The  myrtle  wreath,  that  bound  me  ; 
Here's  to  her,  who  bore 
The  twine  of  bay,  that  crowned  me — 
O  !  had  not  her  light 
So  brightly  shone  upon  me, 
Still  the  cloud  of  night 
Had  darkly  brooded  on  me,; 
There  was  in  her  eye 
A  spirit,  that  inspired  me  ; 
Still  to  do  or  die, 
The  electric  sparkle  fired  me  ; 


304  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

And  though  the  ice  of  death 

Should  chill  the  heart  within  me, 

The  music  of  her  breath 

Back  to  life  again  would  win  me ; 

So  here's  to  her,  who  wore 

The  myrtle  wreath,  that  bound  me  ; 

The  girl,  who  kindly  bore 

The  twine  of  bay,  that  crowned  me. 

No  more  the  iron  chain 

Of  doubt  and  fear  enthrals  me ; 

I  lift  my  wing  again, 

For  'tis  her  voice  that  calls  me ; 

Still  higher,  higher  still, 

In  search  of  glory  soaring, 

I  feel  my  bosom  thrill 

To  the  song  her  voice  is  pouring ; 

And  though  I  stretch  my  flight, 

Where  Heaven  alone  is  o'er  me, 

I  see  her  form  of  light 

Still  floating  on  before  me : 

O  !  when  foes  the  direst  move 

In  columns  to  assail  us, 

Let  us  hear  the  voice  of  love, 

And  our  courage  cannot  fail  us : 

So  here's  to  her,  &c. 

And  when  my  drowsy  soul 
A  heedless  moment  slumbers, 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  305 

Away  the  vapours  roll 

At  the  magic  of  her  numbers  ; 

Back  to  life  again  I  start, 

At  her  thrilling  summons  waking, 

Every  link,  that  bound  my  heart 

Down  to  earth,  indignant  breaking ; 

Then  I  follow,  where  she  flies, 

Like  a  shooting  star,  before  me, 

And  her  fascinating  eyes 

Shed  their  fire  in  flashes  o'er  me  : 

O !  cold  the  heart,  could  sleep, 

When  her  silver  trumpet  called  it, 

And  the  soul,  that  would  not  leap, 

When  her  flowery  chain  enthralled  it : 

So  here's  to  her  who  wore 

The  myrtle  wreath  that  bound  me; 

The  girl,  who  kindly  bore 

The  twine  of  bay  that  crowned  me. 


39 


DITHYRAMBIG* 


FILL  the  cup  for  me, 

Fill  the  cup  of  pleasure  j 

Wake  the  fairy  lyre 

To  its  wildest  measure. 

Melancholy's  gloom 

Now  is  stealing  on  me. 

But  the  cup  and  lyre 

Can  chase  the  demon  from  me. 
Fill  the  cup  for  me, 
Fill  the  cup  of  pleasure? 
Wake  the  fairy  lyre 
To  its  wildest  measure. 

In  the  shades  of  night, 
When  every  eye  is  closing, 
On  the  moonlight  bank 
All  in  peace  reposing, 
There  is  nought  so  sweet, 
As  the  cup  of  pleasure, 
And  the  lyre  that  breathes 
In  its  wildest  measure. 
Fill  the  cup,  &c. 


307 


This  the  smiling  star, 
That  guides  me  o'er  life's  ocean, 
This  the  heavenly  light, 
That  wakes  my  heart's  devotion : 
'T  is  when  Beauty's  smile 
Gives  the  cup  of  pleasure, 
And  awakes  the  lyre 
To  its  wildest  measure. 
Fill  the  cup,  &c. 

If  the  fiend  of  sorrow 
With  his  gloom  affright  thee, 
There  may  come  to-morrow 
One  who  will  delight  thee : 
'Tis  the  fair,  whose  smile 
Beams  with  sweetest  pleasure, 
And  whose  hand  awakes 
The  lyre's  delightful  measure. 
Fill  the  cup,  &c. 

Form  of  Beauty!  bind 
Pleasure's  wreath  of  roses 
Round  this  brow  of  mine, 
Where  every  joy  reposes: 
Yes — my  heart  can  bound 
To  mirth's  enlivening  measure. 
When  the  lyre  is  tuned, 
And  smiles  the  cup  of  Pleasure. 
Fill  the  cup,  &£c. 


308 


Drive  dull  Care  away — 

Why  should  gloom  depress  thee  r 

Life  may  frown  to-day, 

But  Joy  will  soon  caress  thee. 

While  there's  time,  my  friend, 

Drink  the  cup  of  Pleasure, 

And  awake  the  lyre 

To  its  wildest  measure. 

Fill  the  cup  for  me, 
Fill  the  cup  of  Pleasure, 
Wake  the  fairy  lyre 
To  its  wildest  measure. 


THE  SERENADE. 


SOFTLY  the  moonlight 
Is  shed  on  the  lake, 
Cool  is  the  summer  night — 
Wake  !  O  awake  ! 
Faintly  the  curfew 
Is  heard  from  afar, 
List  ye !  O  list ! 
To  the  lively  Guitar, 


309 


Trees  cast  a  mellow  shade 
Over  the  vale, 
Sweetly  the  serenade 
Breathes  in  the  gale, 
Softly  and  tenderly 
Over  the  lake, 
Gaily  and  cheerily — 
Wake  !  O  awake  ! 


See  the  light  pinnace 
Draws  nigh  to  the  shore, 
Swiftly  it  glides 
At  the  heave  of  the  oar, 
Cheerily  plays 
On  its  buoyant  ear, 
Nearer  and  nearer 
The  lively  Guitar. 


Now  the  wind  rises 
And  ruffles  the  pine, 
Ripples  foam-crested 
Like  diamonds  shine, 
They  flash,  where  the  waters 
The  white  pebbles  lave, 
In  the  wake  ofrthe  moon, 
A.S  it  crosses  the  wave. 


310  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 


Bounding  from  billow 
To  billow,  the  boat 
Like  a  wild  swan  is  seen 
On  the  waters  to  float; 
And  the  light  dipping  oars 
Bear  it  smoothly  along 
In  time  to  the  air 
Of  the  Gondolier's  song. 


And  high  on  the  stern 
Stands  the  young  and  the  brave, 
As  love-led  he  crosses 
The  star-spangled  wave, 
And  blends  with  the  murmur 
Of  water  and  grove 
The  tones  of  the  night, 
That  are  sacred  to  love. 


His  gold-hiked  sword 

At  his  bright  belt  is  hung, 

His  mantle  of  silk 

On  his  shoulder  is  flung, 

And  high  waves  the  feather, 

That  dances  and  plays 

On  his  cap  where  the  buckle 

And  rosary  blaze. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  311 

The  maid  from  her  lattice 
Looks  down  on  the  lake, 
To  see  the  foam  sparkle, 
The  bright  billow  break, 
And  to  hear  in  his  boat, 
Where  he  shines  like  a  star, 
Her  lover  so  tenderly 
Touch  his  Guitar. 


She  opens  her  lattice, 

And  sits  in  the  glow 

Of  the  moonlight  and  starlight, 

A  statue  of  snow ; 

And  she  sings  in  a  voice, 

That  is  broken  with  sighs, 

And  she  darts  on  her  lover 

The  light  of  her  eyes. 


His  love-speaking  pantomime 

Tells  her  his  soul — 

How  wild  in  that  sunny  clime 

Hearts  and  eyes  roll. 

She  waves  with  her  white  hand 

Her  white  fazzolett, 

And  her  burning  thoughts  flash 

From  her  eyes'  living  jet. 


312  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

The  moonlight  is  hid 
In  a  vapour  of  snow  ; 
Her  voice  and  his  rebeck 
Alternately  flow ; 
Re-echoed  they  swell 
From  the  rock  on  the  hill; 
They  sing  their  farewell, 
And  the  music  is  still. 


CONSUMPTION. 

THERE  is  a  sweetness  in  woman's  decay, 

When  the  light  of  beauty  is  fading  away, 

When  the  bright  enchantment  of  youth  is  gone, 

And  the  tint  that  glowed,  and  the  eye  that  shone, 

And  darted  around  its  glance  of  power, 

And  the  lip  that  vied  with  the  sweetest  flower, 

That  ever  in  Paestum's*  garden  blew, 

Or  ever  was  steeped  in  fragrant  dew, 

When  all  that  was  bright  and  fair,  is  fled, 

But  the  loveliness  lingering  round  the  dead. 

O  !  there  is  a  sweetness  in  beauty's  close, 
Like  the  perfume  scenting  the  withered  rose ; 
For  a  nameless  charm  around  her  plays, 
And  her  eyes  are  kindled  with  hallowed  rays, 

*  Bifcrique  rosaria  Paesti. —  Virg. 


31; 


And  a  veil  of  spotless  purity 

Has  mantled  her  cheek  with  its  heavenly  dye. 

Like  a  cloud  whereon  the  queen  of  night 

Has  poured  her  softest  tint  of  light ; 

And  there  is  a  blending  of  white  and  blue. 

Where  the  purple  blood  is  melting  through 

The  snow  of  her  pale  and  tender  cheek; 

And  there  are  tones,  that  sweetly  speak 

Of  a  spirit,  who  longs  for  a  purer  day, 

And  is  ready  to  wring  her  flight  away. 

In  the  flush  of  youth  and  the  spring  of  feeling, 
When  life,  like  a  sunny  stream,  is  stealing 
Its  silent  steps  through  a  flowery  path, 
And  all  the  endearments,  that  pleasure  hath, 
Are  poured  from  her  full,  o'erflowing  horn, 
When  the  rose  of  enjoyment  conceals  no  thorn, 
In  her  lightness  of  heart,  to  the  cheery  song 
The  maiden  may  trip  in  the  dance  along, 
And  think  of  the  passing  moment,  that  lies, 
Like  a  fairy  dream,  in  her  dazzled  eyes, 
And  yield  to  the  present,  that  charms  around 
With  all  that  is  lovely  in  sight  and  sound, 
Where  a  thousand  pleasing  phantoms  flit, 
With  the  voice  of  mirth,  and  the  burst  of  wit, 
And  the  music  that  steals  to  the  bosom's  core. 
And  the  heart  in  its  fulness  flowing  o'er 

10 


.  1 


«?M  PEKCIVAL'S  POEMS, 

With  a  few  big  drops,  that  are  soon  repressed.. 

For  short  is  the  stay  of  grief  in  her  breast  : 

In  this  enlivened  and  gladsome  hour 

The  spirit  may  burn  with  a  brighter  power;. 

But  dearer  the  calm  and  quiet  day, 

When  the  Heaven-sick  soul  is  stealing  away. 

And  when  her  sun  is  low  declining, 
And  life  wears  out  with  no  repining, 
And  the  whisper,  that  tells  of  early  death, 
Is  soft  as  the  west  wind's  balmy  breath, 
When  it  comes  at  the  hour  of  still  repose, 
To  sleep  in  the  breast  of  the  wooing  rose; 
And  the  lip,  that  swelled  with  a  living  glow- 
Is  pale  as  a  curl  of  new-fallen  snow; 
And  her  cheek,  like  the  Parian  stone,  is  fair. 
But  the  hectic  spot  that  flushes  there, 
When  the  tide  of  life,  from  its  secret  dwelling'. 
In  a  sudden  gush,  is  deeply  swelling, 
And  giving  a  tinge  to  her  icy  lips, 
Like  the  crimson  rose's  brightest  tips, 
As  richly  red,  and  as  transient  too, 
As  the  clouds,  in  autumn's  sky  of  blue, 
That  seem  like  a  host  of  glory  met 
To  honour  the  sun  at  his  golden  set: 
O !  then,  when  the  spirit  is  taking  wing, 
How  fondly  her  thoughts  to  her  dear  one  eling? 


As  if  she  would  blend  her  soul  with  his 
In  a  deep  and  long  imprinted  kiss ; 
So  fondly  the  panting  camel  flies, 
Where  the  glassy  vapour  cheats  his  eyes, 
And  the  dove  from  the  falcon  seeks  her  nest, 
And  the  infant  shrinks  to  its  mother's  breast. 
And  though  her  dying  voice  be  mute, 
Or  faint  as  the  tones  of  an  unstrung  lute, 
And  though  the  glow  from  her  cheek  be  fled. 
And  her  pale  lips  cold  as  the  marble  dead, 
Her  eye  still  beams  unwonted  fires 
With  a  woman's  love  and  a  saint's  desires, 
And  her  last  fond,  lingering  look  is  given 
To  the  love  she  leaves,  and  then  to  Heaven, 
As  if  she  would  bear  that  love  away 
To  a  purer  world  and  a  brighter  day. 


TO  THE  HOUSTONIA  CERULEA.* 

HOWT  often,  modest  flower, 
I  mark  thy  tender  blossoms,  where  they  spread, 
Along  the  turfy  slope,  their  starry  bed, 
Hung  heavy  with  the  shower. 

*  A  very  delicate  and  humble  flower  of  New-England,  blossoming 
early  in  spring,  and  often  covering  large  patches  of  turf  witli  a  white 
or  pale  blue  carpet.  The  botanical  allusions  in  this  piece  are  repeat 
ed,  and  perhaps  it  will  not  be  fully  relished  by  those,  who  have  not 
examined  the  structure  of  the  flower. 


Thou  comest  in  the  dawn 

Of  nature's  promise,  when  the  sod  of  May 

Is  speckled  with  its  earliest  array, 

And  strewest  with  bloom  the  lawn. 

'Tis  but  a  few  brief  days, 

t 
I  saw  the  green  hill  in  its  fold  of  snow ; 

But  now  thy  slender  stems  arise,  and  blow 
In  April's  fitful  rays. 

I  love  thee,  delicate 

And  humble,  as  thou  art;  thy  dress  of  white, 
And  blue,  and  all  the  tints  where  these  unite. 
Or  wrapped  in  spiral  plait, 

Or  to  the  glancing  sun, 

Shining  through  chequered  cloud,  and  dewy  shower. 
Unfolding  thy  fair  cross.     Yes,  tender  flower, 
Thy  blended  colours  run, 

And  meet  in  harmony, 

Commingling,  like  the  rainbow  tints;  thy  urn 

Of  yellow  rises  with  a  graceful  turn, 

And  as  a  golden  eye, 

Its  softly  swelling  throat 
Shines  in  the  centre  of  thy  circle,  where 
Thy  downy  stigma  rises  slim  and  fair, 
And  catches  as  they  float, 


PERCIVAL  S    POEMS. 


A  cloud  of  living  air, 

The  atom  seeds  of  fertilizing  dust, 

That  hover,  as  thy  lurking  anthers  burst ; 

And  O  !  how  purely  there 

Thy  snowy  circle,  rayed 

With  crosslets,  bends  its  pearly  whiteness  round, 
Arid  how  thy  spreading  lips  are  trimly  bound, 
With  such  a  mellow  shade 

As  in  the  vaulted  blue, 
Deepens  at  starry  midnight,  or  grows  pale, 
When  mantled  in  the  full-moon's  silver  veil, 
That  calm  ethereal  hue. 


I  love  thee,  modest  flower  ! 
And  I  do  find  it  happiness  to  tread, 
With  careful  step,  along  thy  studded  bed, 
At  morning's  freshest  hour, 

Or  when  the  day  declines, 
And  evening  comes  with  dewy  footsteps  on. 
And  now  his  golden  hall  of  slumber  won, 
The  setting  sun  resigns 

His  empire  of  the  sky, 

And  the  cool  breeze  awakes  her  fluttering  train- 
I  walk  through  thy  parterres,  and  not  in  vain, 
For  to  my  downward  eye, 


'US  PERCIVAI/S    POEMS. 

Sweet  flower  !  thou  tellest  bow  hearts 
As  pure  and  tender  as  thy  leaf,  as  low 
And  humble  as  thy  stem,  will  surely  know 
The  joy  that  peace  imparts. 


THE  CORAL  GROVE. 


DEEP  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove. 
Where  the  purple  mullet,  and  gold-fish  rove, 
Where  the  sea-flower  spreads  its  leaves  of  blue, 
That  never  are  wet  with  falling  dew, 
But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty  shine, 
Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy  brine. 
The  floor  is  of  sand,  like  the  mountain  drift, 
And  the  pearl  shells  spangle  the  flinty  snow ; 
From  coral  rocks  the  sea  plants  lift 
Their  boughs,  where  the  tides  and  billows  flow  ; 
The  water  is  calm  and  still  below, 
For  the  winds  and  waves  are  absent  there, 
And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars  that  glow 
In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air  : 
There  with  its  waving  blade  of  green, 
The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  silent  water, 
And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is  seen 
To  blush,  like  a  banner  bathed  in  slaughter  : 


319 

There  with  a  light  and  easy  motion, 

The  fan-coral  sweeps  through  the  clear  deep  sea  5 

And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean. 

Are  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea  : 

And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  forms, 

Is  sporting  amid  those  bowers  of  stone, 

And  is  safe,  when  the  wrathful  spirit  of  storms, 

Has  made  the  top  of  the  wave  his  own  : 

And  when  the  ship  from  his  fury  flies, 

Where  the  myriad  voices  of  ocean  roar, 

When  the  wind-god  frowns  in  the  murky  skies, 

And  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck  on  shore  ; 

Then  far  below  in  the  peaceful  sea, 

The  purple  mullet,  and  gold-fish  rove, 

Where  the  waters  murmur  tranquilly, 

Through  the  bending  twigs  of  the  coral  grove, 


On  finding  the  ANEMONE  HEPATICA,  the  earliest  Flower 
of  Spring. 

BESIDE  a  fading  bank  of  snow 
A  lovely  Anemone  blew, 
Unfolding  to  the  sun's  bright  glow 
Its  leaves  of  Heaven's  serenest  hue  ; 


320 

The  snowy  stamens  gemmed  them  o'er. 
The  pleasing  contrast  caught  my  eye, 
As  on  the  ocean's  sandy  shore 
The  purple  shells  and  corals  lie. 

I  saw  the  flower — what  tumults  rose 
Within  my  heart,  what  ecstasy  ; 
The  captive  soul  no  brighter  glows, 
When  hailing  life  and  liberty. 

'  Tis  spring,  I  cried,  pale  winter's  fled, 
The  earliest  wreath  of  flowers  is  blown, 
The  blossoms  withered  long  and  dead 
Will  soon  proclaim  their  tyrant  flown. 

How  smiles  the  sun  in  yonder  sky, 
How  pure  the  vault  of  ether  swells, 
How  sweet  to  hear  on  mountain  high 
The  tinkle  of  the  shepherd-bells. 

The  meadows  don  their  green  array, 
The  streams  in  purer  currents  flow ; 
On  sunny  knolls  the  lambkins  play, 
And  sport  amid  the  vales  below. 

The  humble  Anemone  blows, 
The  blue-bird  now  is  on  the  wing, 
How  soon  will  breathe  the  blushing  rose, 
How  soon  will  all  around  be  spring ! 


321 


A  TULIP  blossomed,  one  morning  in  May, 
By  the  side  of  a  sanded  alley  ; 
Its  leaves  were  dressed  in  a  rich  array, 
Like  the  clouds  at  the  earliest  dawn  of  day, 
When  the  mist  rolls  over  the  valley  : 
The  dew  had  descended  the  night  before, 
And  lay  in  its  velvet  bosom, 
And  its  spreading  urn  was  flowing  o'er, 
And  the  crystal  heightened  the  tints,  it  bore 
On  its  yellow  and  crimson  blossom. 

A  sweet  red-rose,  on  its  bending  thorn, 

Its  bud  was  newly  spreading, 

And  the  flowing  effulgence  of  early  morn 

Its  beams  on  its  breast  was  shedding ; 

The  petals  were  heavy  with  dripping  tears, 

That  twinkled  in  pearly  brightness, 

And  the  thrush  in  its  covert  thrilled  my  ears 

With  a  varied  song  of  lightness. 

A  lily,  in  mantle  of  purest  snow, 
Hung  over  a  silent  fountain, 
And  the  wave  in  its  calm  and  quiet  flow, 
Displayed  its  silken  leaves  below, 
Like  the  drift  on  the  windy  mountain ; 

41 


- 


It  bowed  with  the  moisture,  the  night  had  wept, 
When  the  stars  shone  over  the  billow, 
And  white-winged  spirits  their  vigils  kept, 
Where  beauty  and  innocence  sweetly  slept 
On  its  pure  and  thornless  pillow. 

A  hyacinth  lifted  its  purple  bell 

From  the  slender  leaves  around  it ; 

It  curved  its  cup  in  a  flowing  swell, 

And  a  starry  circle  crowned  it ; 

The  deep  blue  tincture,  that  robed  it,  seemed 

The  gloomiest  garb  of  sorrow, 

As  if  on  its  eye  no  brightness  beamed, 

And  it  never  in  clearer  moments  dreamed, 

Of  a  fair  and  a  calm  to-morrow. 

A  daisy  peeped  from  the  tufted  sod, 

In  its  bashful  modesty  drooping ; 

Where  often  the  morn,  as  I  lightly  trod, 

In  bounding  youth,  the  fallow  clod, 

Had  over  it  seen  me  stooping ; 

It  looked  in  my  face  with  a  dewy  eye 

From  its  ring  of  ruby  lashes, 

And  it  seemed,  that  a  brighter  was  lurking  byy 

The  fires  of  whose  ebony  lustre  fly, 

Like  summer's  dazzling  flashes. 

And  the  wind,  with  a  soft  and  silent  wing. 
Brushed  over  this  wild  of  flowers, 


And  it  wakened  the  birds,  who  began  to  sing 
Their  hymn  to  the  season  of  love  and  spring, 
In  the  shade  of  the  bending  bowers  ; 
And  it  culled  their  full  nectareous  store, 
In  its  lightly  fluttering  motion, 
As  when  from  Hybla's  murmuring  shore 
The  evening  breeze  from  her  thyme-beds  bore 
Their  sweetness  over  the  ocean. 


I  HAD  found  out  a  sweet  green  spot, 
Where  a  lily  was  blooming  fair ; 
The  din  of  the  city  disturbed  it  not, 
But  the  spirit,  that  shades  the  quiet  cot 
With  its  wings  of  love,  was  there. 

I  found  that  lily's  bloom, 

When  the  day  was  dark  and  chill ; 

It  smiled,  like  a  star,  in  the  misty  gloom, 

And  it  sent  abroad  a  soft  perfume, 

Which  is  floating  around  me  still. 

I  sat  by  the  lily's  bell, 

And  I  watched  it  many  a  day ; 

The  leaves,  that  rose  in  a  flowing  swell, 

Grew  faint  and  dim,  then  drooped  and  fell, 

And  the  flower  had  flown  away. 


323 


324 


I  looked  where  the  leaves  were  laid, 

In  withering  paleness,  by ; 

And,  as  gloomy  thoughts  stole  on  me,  said, 

There  is  many  a  sweet  and  blooming  maid. 

Who  will  soon  as  dimly  die. 


BALLADS. 


A  few  years  since,  a.  small  lake  in  a  wildly  romantic  situation  in  the 
northern  part  of  Vermont,  was  unfortunately  drained  by  the  burst 
ing  of  one  of  the  brinks  that  confined  it.  The  following  stanzas  are 
intended  for  a  description  of  that  event. 


A  LAKE  once  lay,  where  the  thunder  clouds  sail, 
On  the  lofty  mountain's  breast, 
Whose  ripple,  when  raised  by  the  rustling  gale, 
Wras  so  gentle,  it  seemed  at  rest; 
The  pine  waved  round,  and  the  dark  cliff'  frowned, 
Their  shadow  was  gloomy  as  night ; 
But  when  the  sun  shone,  on  his  noon-day  throne, 
The  lake  seemed  a  mirror  of  light. 
There  the  red-finned  trout  like  a  flash  darted  by, 
And  the  pickerel  moved  like  the  glance  of  an  eye. 

When  the  wind  breathed  soft  at  the  dawning  of  day. 

When  the  morning-birds  warbled  around, 

And  the  rainbow  shone  on  the  scarce  seen  spray, 

No  lovelier  place  could  be  found : 

Oh !  this  scene  was  as  dear  to  mine  eye  and  mine  ear. 


As  the  glance  and  the  song  of  my  love, 

And  the  lake  was  as  bright,  and  as  pure  to  the  sight. 

As  the  bosom  of  angels  above  : 

The  surface  flashed  with  a  golden  glow, 

And  a  forest  of  verdure  seemed  waving  below. 

The  year  rolled  away,  and  I  saw  it  no  more 

Till  the  spring  bloomed  sweetly  again, 

Till  the  birch  first  unfolded  its  leaves  on  the  shore. 

And  the  robin  first  warbled  its  strain  : 

But  no  lake  smiled  there,  with  its  bosom  fair, 

'Twas  a  dell  all  with  bushes  o'ergrown, 

From  my  dream  of  delight,  like  a  sleeper  at  night, 

I  awoke  and  I  found  me  alone. 

Through  the  vale  it  had  burst  with  the  swiftness  of  wind, 

And  left  but  a  path  of  destruction  behind. 

The  leaves  were  all  dead  on  the  wave-loving  willow, 

It  whispered  no  more  in  the  wind  ; 

No  moonbeam  slept  on  the  water's  soft  pillow, 

Or  smiled  like  the  tranquillized  mind  ; 

The  flower-bush  there  was  the  foxes  lair, 

And  the  whippoorwill  sung  all  alone, 

Where  the  moonbeams  pale,  glancing  through  the  vale. 

Just  gleamed  on  the  moss-gray  stone. 

Where  the  trout  once  darted,  the  adder  crept, 

And  the  rattlesnake  coiled,  where  the  Naiad  wept. 


,520 

By  the  moon's  chill  light,  the  white  pebble  shone 

On  the  beach,  where  the  wave  once  rolled, 

And  the  lustre  gleamed  on  the  water-worn  stone. 

But  told  to  the  eye  it  was  cold  : 

No  rippling  wave  that  beach  shall  lave, 

No  white  foam  shall  toss  on  that  shore, 

And  the  billow's  flash,  and  its  scarce  heard  dash, 

Shall  be  known  in  that  valley  no  more. 

For  the  wave,  shall  be  heard  the  serpent's  breath, 

For  the  dash  of  the  billow,  the  hiss  of  death. 

Where  the  foam  once  sparkled,  the  cedar-bush  waved, 
And  the  reed  rustled  sweet  in  the  gale; 
And  the  rock  that  the  water  so  silently  laved 
Was  hid  by  the  gray  lichen's  veil  ; 
There  the  dark  fern  flings  on  the  night-wind's  wings 
Its  leaves  like  the  dancing  feather, 
And  the  whippoorwill's  note  seemed  gently  to  float 
From  the  deep  purple  bloom  of  the  heather. 
Where  the  surface  glittered,  the  weed  grew  wild, 
And  the  flower  blossomed  sweet,  where  the  wave  once 
smiled. 

So  when  life  first  dawns  on  the  infant  soul, 
'T  is  as  pure  as  the  lake's  clear  wave ; 
Not  a  passion  is  there  but  can  brook  controul, 
Not  a  thought  that  is  pleasure's  slave : 
But  youth  comes  on,  and  this  purity's  gone, 
• 


327 


Fair  innocence  smiles  there  no  more, 

And  cold  is  the  guest,  that  lives  in  that  breast, 

As  the  stone  on  this  desolate  shore  ; 

A  poison  floats  in  its  balmiest  breath, 

And  where  the  flower  smiles  is  the  serpent  of  death. 


THE   MERMAID. 

I. 

THE  waning  moon  looked  cold  and  pale, 
Just  rising  o'er  the  eastern  wave, 
And  faintly  moaned  the  evening  gale, 
That  swept  along  the  gloomy  cave  : 
The  waves  that  wildly  rose  and  fell, 
On  all  the  rocks  the  white  foam  flung, 
And  like  the  distant  funeral  knell, 
Within  her  grot  the  Mermaid  sung. 

II. 

It  was  a  strain  of  witchery 
So  sweet,  yet  mournful  to  my  ear,7 
It  lit  the  smile,  it  waked  the  sigh? 
Then  started  pity's  pearly  tear; 
There  was  a  ruffle  in  my  breast, 
It  was  not  joy,  it  was  not  pain, 
T  was  wild  as  yonder  billow's  crest, 
That  tosses  o'er  the  heaving  main. 


328 


III. 

Along  the  wave  the  moon's  cold  light, 
With  trembling  radiance  feebly  shone ; 
A  lustre  neither  faint  nor  bright 
Sparkled  on  yonder  watery  stone  : 
There,  seated  on  her  sea-beat  throne, 
The  Mermaid  eyed  the  dashing  wave, 
Then  waked  her  wild  harp's  melting  tone, 
And  breathed  the  music  of  the  grave. 

IV. 

Her  silken  tresses  all  unbound, 

Played  loosely  on  the  evening  gale, 

She  cast  a  mournful  look  around, 

Then  sweetly  woke  her  wild  harp's  wail ; 

And,  as  her  marble  fingers  flew 

Along  the  chords,  such  music  flowed — 

Her  cheek  assumed  a  varied  hue, 

Where  grief  grew  pale — where  pleasure  glowed. 

V. 

The  sound  rose  sweetly  on  the  wind, 
It  was  a  strain  of  melancholy — 
It  soothed  each  tumult  of  the  mind, 
And  hushed  the  wildest  laugh  of  folly. 
It  flowed  so  softly  o'er  the  main, 
And  spread  so  calmly,  widely  'round ; 
The  air  seemed  living  with  the  strain, 
And  every  zephyr  breathed  the  sound. 


VI. 

The  seal,  that  sported  on  the  shore, 
His  gambols  ceased,  and  pricked  his  ear ; 
He  heeded  not  the  billow's  roar — 
That  strain  was  all  he  seemed  to  hear. 
As  through  the  surf  the  dolphins  flew, 
They  stopped  and  played  around  her  throne, 
It  seemed,  Arion  woke  anew 
His  harp  to  some  celestial  tone. 

VII. 

With  what  a  thrilling  ecstacy 
I  heard  the  music  of  her  lyre  j 
The  very  soul  of  melody 
Seemed  warbling  on  the  trembling  wire  : 
O  !  never  o'er  her  infant  dear 
The  mother  half  so  fondly  hung, 
As  when  I  bent  my  soul  to  hear 
Those  heavenly  strains  the  Mermaid  sung. 

On  viewing,  one  summer  evening,  the  house  of  my  birth, 
in  a  state  of  desertion. 

THE  crescent  moon  with  pallid  light 
Was  silvering  o'er  the  brow  of  night; 
With  downy  wing  the  summer-breeze 
Sported  amid  the  rustling  trees, 
Waving  the  leaves  that  lightly  flew, 
And  kissing  off  the  night-fallen  dew. 


330  PEKCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

Along  the  gently-winding  vale, 

Its  surface  ruffled  by  the  gale, 

The  softly-flowing  rivulet  strayed, 

While  o'er  its  wave  the  moonbeam  played, 

Smiling,  as  calmly  stealing  by, 

Like  tears  of  joy  in  beauty's  eye. 

Through  the  wood  my  fancy  loved, 

Rapt  in  kindling  thought,  I  roved ; 

Not  a  zephyr  shook  the  spray 

To  brush  the  trembling  gems  away ; 

Not  a  warble  met  my  ear, 

All  was  silent  far  and  near, 

Still  as  cypress  boughs,  that  wave 

Slowly  o'er  the  lonely  grave, 

And  weave  their  deep,  impressive  gloom — 

Fit  emblem  of  the  dreary  tomb. 

Down  a  glen,  where  half  unseen, 
Banked  with  turf  of  deepest  green, 
Flowed  a  winding  rill  along, 
Tinkling  like  the  milk-maid's  songj 
Where  the  moon's  reflected  ray 
Smiling  on  the  surface  lay, 
Seeming  to  sleep  in  soft  repose, 
Like  morning  dew-drops  on  the  rose  7 
Where  the  evening-splendours  fade 


In  the  maple's  quiet  shade ; 


331 


Lonely,  desolate  appears, 

Pale  as  in  the  vale  of  years, 

The  mansion  where  my  infant  eye 

First  saw  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  sky. 

O  !  it  was  a  lovely  sight, 

Though  obscured  by  shades  of  night ; 

And  though  the  ivy-mantled  wall 

At  intervals  was  heard  to  fall, 

Breaking  with  faintly  rattling  sound 

The  quiet  hush  that  reigned  around. 

Through  the  walks,  where  privets  blew 
And  purple  lilacs  wildly  grew, 
'Mid  entangling  weeds  and  briars, 
And  the  rye-grass'  waving  spires, 
'Neath  the  pear-tree,  where,  as  Spring 
Bade  her  untaught  music  ring, 
Purest  blooms  of  snowy  white 
Charmed  the  fond-reposing  sight, 
And  gales  of  incense  whispered  by 

Gentle  as  the  lover's  sigh 

I  wandered  slow,  and  fondly  viewed 
This  scene  in  evening  tears  bedewed. 
And  felt  around  my  heart  the  throe 
Of  tender  grief  and  melting  wo, 
To  see  a  spot  so  sweet,  so  dear, 
Now  laid  on  desolation's  bier, 
And  view  a  scene  of  loveliness 
In  ruin's  wildest,  roughest  dress. 


332 


With  trembling  hand  I  oped  the  door, 

And  wandered  o'er  the  mouldering  floor  $ 

Along  the  slowly  crumbling  wall, 

Where  wintry  fires  were  wont  to  fall 

And  smile  with  beams  of  ruddy  light, 

Chasing  away  the  gloom  of  night, 

Nought  was  seen  but  shadows  drear 

And  sights  that  filled  my  soul  with  fear  : 

Darkened  by  trickling  autumn  rains. 

That  left  their  wild  fantastic  stains, 

Seeming,  as  stars  with  feeble  ray 

Reflected  o'er  the  ceiling  play, 

Spirits  that  swiftly  flutter  by 

And  glance  like  visions  on  my  eye. 

And  there  the  slowly  creeping  snail 

Drew  o'er  the  wall  its  slimy  veil ; 

Its  silken  web  the  spider  wove 

To  trap  the  flies  that  idly  rove  ; 

While,  slumbering  through  the  summer's  day, 

The  bat  in  some  lone  corner  lay, 

Till  started  by  my  solemn  tread 

He  flapped  his  wings  around  my  head, 

And  darting  through  the  broken  pane 

Sailed  on  the  evening  breeze  again. 

The  moonbeam  shone  along  the  room, 
Like  starlight  glistening  on  a  tomb ; 
The  clock  was  still — its  sweet-toned  bell 
No  longer  rung  Time's  funeral  knell, 


333 

No  more  its  index  seemed  to  say 

How  swift  the  moments  flew  away. 

All  was  lonely,  all  was  still, 

The  thrush  was  silent  on  the  hill, 

The  sheep-bell's  shrilly  tinkling  note 

Was  .heard  no  longer  in  the  cote, 

No  breathing  soul  the  silence  broke, 

No  flageolet  its  sweetness  woke, 

No  voice  was  singing  in  the  vale, 

No  echo  floated  on  the  gale ; 

:Twas  hushed,  but  when  with  droning  sound 

The  slow-winged  beetle  hummed  around. 

Resting  on  a  broken  chair, 

Relic  of  the  ruin  there, 

By  the  window  I  reclined 

And  listened  to  the  moaning  wind, 

That  whispered  through  the  broken  pane, 

Mournful  as  the  funeral  strain. 

O'er  my  head  the  woodbine  blew, 

All  its  flowers  were  wet  with  dew, 

And  sweeter  fragrance  flowed  around, 

Than  ever  charmed  enchanted  ground  ; 

So  sweet  the  scent,  that  Eden's  gale 

Seemed  breathing  through  the  desert  vale. 

Ivy  hung  its  tendrils  there, 

And  trembled  in  the  dewy  air, 

Twisting  around  the  shattered  frame, 

Where  still  a  rudely  sculptured  name 


334  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

Half  hid  in  lichens  caught  my  eye. 
And  told  me  of  the  years  gone  by. 

Beneath  my  eye  and  in  the  shade, 
An  aged  elm  low-bending  made, 
A  modest  rose-bush  reared  its  head 
And  far  around  its  sweetness  shed. 
Two  damask  flowers  with  leaflets  pale, 
Were  lightly  trembling  on  the  gale, 
And,  as  the  moonbeam  o'er  them  shone. 
Seemed  like  two  mourners  left  alone 
Amid  those  scenes,  where  gay  delight, 
Frolic  ever  dancing  light, 
Woke  their  shouts  of  rapture  wild, 
And  cheerfulness  serenely  smiled. 
All — all  were  gone.     Like  insects  gay, 
That  sport  them  in  the  summer  ray, 
Young  Happiness,  so  sweetly  blown, 
With  hurrying  wing  away  had  flown, 
Vanished  in  night  the  vision  fair, 
And  left  these  two  to  wither  there. 

Soon  I  glanced  my  roving  eye 
On  a  sprig  of  rosemary  ; 
Hid  in  grass  that  rankly  grew 
There  the  humble  flow'ret  blew, 
Bashful  'neath  the  rose's  shade 
All  its  modest  hues  displayed  ; 


As  the  maiden  sweet  as  May 
With  her  eye  of  heavenly  ray 
Shrinking  from  the  world's  rude  storm. 
Hides  in  shades  obscure  her  form. 
On  its  lip  of  paley  blue, 
Smiled  in  peace  a  pearl  of  dew; 
3Twas  a  melancholy  flower, 
Such  as  in  affliction's  hour 
O'er  the  heaving  turf  I'd  throw, 
To  deck  the  friend  that  rests  below. 

Glancing  farther  o'er  the  scene, 
Gay  with  flowers  and  soft  with  green ; 
But  now  beneath  the  moon's  pale  light 
All  seemed  one  colour  to  the  sight. 
Such  the  mellow  fading  tint, 
When  the  fays  their  footsteps  print, 
Where  the  tiny  billows  break 
On  the  gently  heaving  lake : 
'T  was  not  ebon,  't  was  not  green, 
Mingled  hues  that  melt  between; 
As  when  beside  the  taper's  ray 
The  maiden  weeps  the  hours  awayy 
And  seen  at  distance  faintly  glows, 
Her  grief-worn  cheek's  decaying  rose, 
Till  every  soft  and  winning  charm 
Dissolves  into  a  sylphid  form. 


335 


PERCIVAL  S    POEMS. 

O'er  the  slowly  winding  flood, 

Mid  the  shadows  of  the  wood, 

And  in  the  meadow  spread  before 

The  ruined  mansion's  broken  door, 

I  saw  in  gently  veering  flight 

The  insect  lightning  of  the  night, 

Shining  with  a  feeble  ray, 

As  it  slowly  sailed  away, 

Or  twinkling  with  a  sudden  spark, 

Spangling  the  scenery  wild  and  dark. 

So  the  meteor  light  of  fame 

Glows  with  such  a  fickle  flame, 

So  all  happiness  below 

Is  an  insect's  transient  glow : 

For  a  time  it  sweetly  smiles 

Dressed  in  fancy's  dearest  wiles  -y 

Mirth  amid  his  rosy  bowers 

Laughs  away  the  gliding  hours, 

The  moments  of  a  short-lived  day 

That  steals  like  air  unseen  away; 

Love  entwines  his  silken  chain 

And  breathes  his  soft  enchanting  strain, 

Joy  awakes  his  twisted  shell 

To  the  notes  that  please  him  well, 

Hope's  gay  colours  richly  blend 

And  tell  of  sports  that  never  end, 

While  jovial  Pleasure's  golden  dawn, 

Sparkles  awhile,  and  all  is  gone. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  337 

Farther  still  I  turned  my  eyes, 
Where  the  waving  forests  rise, 
Where  the  hills  with  easy  swell 
Rising  from  the  lowly  dell, 
Smile  beneath  the  pallid  ray, 
Till  they  fade  in  mist  away. 
Upward  to  the  sky  I  turned, 
Where  the  stars  serenely  burned, 
And  around  the  lonely  pole. 
Saw  the  bear  its  lustre  roll. 
There  amid  the  lofty  blue, 
Veiled  in  robe  of  silver  hue, 
Luna  showed  her  crescent  pale, 
And  trembled  through  her  misty  veil: 
Round  her  orb  the  halo  shone 
Lovely  as  the  milky  zone, 
When  in  winter's  cloudless  night, 
It  spreads  o'er  Heaven  its  belt  of  light. 
"  Silvery  planet — kindly  shed 
On  thy  humble  votary's  head 
Thy  serenest  rays,  and  shine 
On  my  brow  with  beam  divine. 
Light  me  through  this  world  of  sorrow, 
Till  I  find  a  fair  to-morrow; 
Till  the  woes  that  rack  my  breast 
Slumber  in  an  infant's  rest. 
When  my  corpse  is  lowly  laid 
Where  the  yews  inweave  their  shade, 

43 


1'ERCIVAL  S    POEMs. 

Through  the  boughs  that  slowly  wave 
Smile  serenely  on  my  grave. 

"Never  will  thy  pallid  ray 

O'er  such  lovely  waters  play, 

Never  shine  on  fairer  bowers 

Through  the  evening's  quiet  hours, 

Nor  shed  thy  flood  of  spotless  light 

On  scenes  more  beauteous  or  more  bright. '? 

Land  of  my  Nativity ! 
How  thou  charmest  the  wearied  eye; 
O !  thou  hast  a  genial  balm, 
That  can  the  saddest  bosom  calm. 
Smiling  in  the  dewy  dawn, 
When  the  songsters  o'er  the  lawn 
Open  their  mellifluous  throats 
And  warble  their  enchanting  notes; 
Glowing  when  the  noon-tide  beam 
Gilds  the  flowery  bordered  stream, 
And  charming  at  the  close  of  day, 
When  the  twilight  fades  away. 

Mountains  swelling  to  the  sky, 
Forests  frowning  on  the  eye, 
Waving  woodlands,  meadows  gay, 
Streamlets  where  the  minnows  play. 
Winding  valleys,  swelling  hills, 
Crystal  fountains,  tinkling  rills, 


330 


Smile  in  morning's  rosy  light — 
And  melt  amid  the  shades  of  night. 
Such  thy  scenes,  for  ever  dear, 
Whether  far  away  or  near ; 
Whether  smiling  on  the  eye, 
Or  in  the  hues  of  memory. 
When  I  leave  this  desert  vale 
Thou  wilt  ever  bid  me  wail, 
Always  wake  the  parting  sigh 
And  draw  the  tear-drop  from  my  eye. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 

HE  has  gone  to  the  land,  where  the  dead  are  still, 

And  mute  the  song  of  gladness ; 

He  drank  at  the  cup  of  grief  his  fill, 

And  his  life  was  a  dream  of  madness ; 

The  victim  of  fancy's  torturing  spell, 

From  hope  to  darkness  driven, 

His  agony  was  the  rack  of  Hell, 

His  joy  the  thrill  of  Heaven. 

He  has  gone  to  the  land,  where  the  dead  are  cold, 
And  thought  will  sting  him — never; 
The  tomb  its  darkest  veil  has  rolled 
O'er  all  his  faults  for  ever; 


340 

O !  there  was  a  light  that  shone  within 
The  gloom,  that  hung  around  him; 
His  heart  was  formed  to  woo  and  win, 
But  love  had  never  crowned  him. 

He  has  gone  to  the  land,  where  the  dead  may  rest 

In  a  soft,  unbroken  slumber, 

Where  the  pulse,  that  swelled  his  anguished  breast, 

Shall  never  his  tortures  number; 

Ah !  little  the  reckless  witlings  know, 

How  keenly  throbbed  and  smarted 

That  bosom,  which  burned  with  a  brightest  glow. 

Till  crushed  and  broken-hearted. 

He  longed  to  love,  and  a  frown  was  all, 
The  cold  and  thoughtless  gave  him; 
He  sprang  to  Ambition's  trumpet-call, 
But  back  they  rudely  drave  him: 
He  glowed  with  a  spirit  pure  and  high. 
They  called  the  feeling  madness : 
And  he  wept  for  wo  with  a  melting  eye, 
'T  was  weak  and  moody  sadness. 


He  sought,  with  an  ardour  full  and  keen, 
To  rise  to  a  noble  station, 
But  repulsed  by  the  proud,  the  cold,  the  mean. 
He  sunk  in  desperation; 


•I 
341 

They  called  him  away  to  Pleasure's  bowers, 
But  gave  him  a  poisoned  chalice, 
And  from  her  alluring  wreath  of  flowers 
They  glanced  the  grin  of  malice. 

He  felt,  that  the  charm  of  life  was  gone, 
That  his  hopes  were  chilled  and  blasted, 
That  being  wearily  lingered  on 
In  sadness,  while  it  lasted ; 
He  turned  to  the  picture  fancy  drew, 
Which  he  thought  would  darken  never; 
It  fled — to  the  damp,  cold  grave  he  flew, 
And  he  sleeps  with  the  dead  for  ever. 


THE    PARTING    OF 

WILLIAM  AND  MARY. 


if  WE  part,  perhaps  to  meet  no  more — 
To  distant  lands  from  thee  1  go; 
Far,  far  beyond  the  ocean's  roar, 
For  thee  my  tears  will  ever  flow  : 

An  exile  from  my  native  land, 

I  long  must  plow  the  raging  main : 

Alas !  no  Mary's  gentle  hand 

Shall  sooth  my  bosom's  inward  pain. 


342 

Thou  weep'st,  my  love : — how  dear  those  tears, 
What  treasures  to  thy  William's  heart: 
They  banish  all  his  anxious  fears — 
They  blunt  the  point  of  sorrow's  dart — 

They  tell  me  Mary  loves  me  still, 
And  grieves  to  bid  her  last  adieu : 
Oh.  guard  her,  Heaven,  from  every  ill, 
And  keep  her  to  her  William  true." 

"  And  wilt  thou,  William !  think  no  more, 
When  far  beyond  the  raging  main, 
How  Mary  lingers  on  this  shore 
And  strains  to  catch  thy  sail  in  vain  ? 

0 

Oh,  William !  let  thy  wishes  rise 
And  send  them  o'er  the  wave  to  me: 
The  Power,  that  rules  in  yonder  skies. 
Will  hear  the  vows  of  constancy." 

Yes !  I  will  think  when  far  away, 
How  thou  art  weeping  on  this  shore ; 
Dark  be  the  hour,  and  curst  the  day, 
When  I  shall  muse  on  thee  no  more. 


But  hark !  the  signal !  we  must  part : — 
While  life  remains  let  us  be  true; 
Yes !  though  I  feel  a  bursting  heart, 
I  now  must  bid  my  last  adieu." 


343 


Her  drooping  head  his  Mary  laid 
Upon  the  youth  she  loved  so  well : 
He  gently  kissed  the  sinking  maid 
And  breathed  upon  her  \ipsfarewell; 

Then  tore  him  from  her  fond  embrace 
And  dashed  the  tear-drops  from  his  eye- 
Just  gazed  upon  her  angel-face; 
Then  turned  and  marked  the  streamers  fly. 

He  shouted,  as  he  leaped  on  board, 

To  hide  his  bosom's  inward  pain; 

The  sails  were  set — the  loud  winds  roared- 

The  ship  plowed  foaming  to  the  main. 


"VANITY  .OF  VANITIES,  ALL  IS  VANITY/ 


ON  Reggio's  classic  shore  I  stood, 
And  looked  across  the  wave  below, 
And  saw  the  sea,  a  glassy  flood, 
In  all  the  hues  of  morning  glow  ;* 
Groves  waved  aloft  on  sunward  hills, 
Their  leaves  were  green  and  tipt  with  gold. 
And  all  the  dazzling  pomp,  that  fills 
The  sunset  skies,  was  round  them  rolled ; 


The  Fata  Morgana. 


344 

Arches  on  arches,  proudly  piled. 
Seemed  towering  to  the  deep-blue  sky, 
And  ruins  lay  deserted,  wild, 
And  torrents  foamed  and  thundered  by; 
And  flowery  meadows  soft  and  green, 
In  living  emerald  met  the  light, 
And  o'er  their  dewy  turf  were  seen, 
In  countless  gems,  the  drops  of  night ; 
And  gardens,  full  of  freshest  flowers, 
Unfurled  the  pictured  veil  of  Spring, 
And  round  the  gay  and  perfumed  bowers 
Sweet-warbling  birds  were  on  the  wing ; 
And  many  a  tall  and  stately  spire 
Rose  to  the  clouds,  that  loosely  curled, 
And  kindled  each  with  solar  fire, 
Seemed  beings  of  a  brighter  world  ; 
And  mountains  reared  their  giant  head, 
And  lifted  high  their  peak  of  snow, 
And  o'er  its  wide  majestic  bed 
The  ocean  seemed  to  ebb  and  flow  ; 
And  all  the  wonders  of  the  skies, 
And  earth  and  sea  were  thrown  around, 
And  all  were  stained  in  deepest  dies, 
And  vast  as  Being's  utmost  bound; 
And  on  the  magic  scene  I  gazed, 
And  as  behind  the  hills  arose 
The  golden  Sun,  awhile  it  blazed 
In  brighter  tints,  and  then  it  closed, 


And  all  the  changing  pageant  passed, 
In  faint  and  fainter  hues,  away, 
Until  a  tender  green,  at  last, 
Glassed  o'er  the  still  and  waveless  bay, 
And  Reggie's  towers,  Messina's  wall, 
The  hills,  the  woods,  the  frequent  sail, 
That  trembled  on  the  stream,  were  all 
The  relics  of  the  Fairy  tale. 

'Twas  evening,  and  the  Sun  went  down, 
Deep  crimsoned  in  the  frowning  sky, 
And  Night,  in  robe  of  dusky  brown, 
Hung  out  her  lurid  veil  on  high; 
A  mist  crept  o'er  the  lonely  wild, 
That  heaved,  a  sandy  ocean,  round, 
And  loosely  lay,  in  billows  piled, 
To  the  horizon's  farthest  bound  ; 
The  Sun,  as  if  involved  in  blood, 
Shone  through  the  fog  with  direful  beam, 
And  from  behind  the  hills,  a  flood 
Of  liquid  purple  poured  its  stream, 
And  o'er  the  dusty  desert  flowed, 
Until,  as  kindled  by  the  rays, 
The  heated  plain  intensely  glowed, 
Like  some  wide  forest  in  a  blaze; 
And  riding  o'er  the  distant  waste 
The  burning  sand-spout  stalked  along, 
And  as  the  horrid  phantom  passed, 

44 


346 


The  driver  keener  plied  his  thong, 
And  shrieked,  as  on  the  Simoom  roared, 
As  if  the  gathered  fiends  of  hell, 
Around  in  vengeful  armies  poured, 
Had  rung  the  world's  decisive  knell : 
But  far  away  a  bright  Oase* 
Shone  sweetly  in  the  eastern  skyy 
As  fair,  as  in  the  magic  glass 
Groves,  lawns,  and  hills,  and  waters  lie; 
A  lake  in  mirrored  brightness  lay, 
Spread  like  an  overflowing  Nile, 
Its  peacefnl  rippling  seemed  to  play, 
And  curl  in  summer's  sweetest  smile; 
The  sunset  tinged  the  surface  o'er, 
And  here  it  lay  in  sheeted  gold, 
And  there  the  ruffled  stream,  before 
The  evening  breeze,  in  emerald  rolled; 
And  many  a  white  and  platted  sail 
Dropped  softly  down  the  silent  tide, 
Or  as  the  rising  winds  prevail, 
Careening  low  was  seen  to  glide; 
And  there  the  fisher  plied  his  oar, 
And  spread  his  net,  and  hung  his  pole, 
And  drove  with  palm  boughs  to  the  shore, 
In  crowds,  the  gaily  glittering  shoal; 

''*  The  Mirage  of  the  Desert. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  347 


And  birds  were  ever  on  the  wing, 

Or  lightly  plashing  in  the  flood, 

And  gorgeous,  as  an  eastern  King, 

In  stately  pomp  the  Flaminant  stood  5 

And  herds  of  lowing  buffaloes, 

And  light  gazelles  came  down  to  drink. 

And  there  the  river  horse  arose, 

And  stalked  a  giant  to  the  brink; 

And  shepherds  drove  their  pastured  flocks 

To  taste  the  cool,  refreshing  wave, 

And  on  the  heathy-mantled  rocks 

The  goats  their  tender  bleating  gave : 

And  o'er  the  green  and  rice-clad  plain, 

In  coats  of  crimson,  gold  and  blue, 

The  small  birds  trilled  their  mellow  strain. 

And  revelled  in  the  falling  dew; 

And  there  the  palrn  its  pillar  heaves, 

And  spreads  its  umbelled  crown  of  flowers, 

And  broad  and  pointed  glossy  leaves, 

Whose  shade  the  idle  camp  embowers; 

And  there  the  aged  sit  and  tell 

Their  tales,  as  high  the  light  smoke  curls. 

And  eye  the  dance,  around  the  well, 

Of  fiery  youths  and  black-eyed  girls, 

Or  where  in  many  a  leap  and  curve 

They  keenly  rush  around  the  ring, 

And  with  an  aim,  that  cannot  swerve, 

In  eager  strife  the  jerreed  fling ; 


348 

And  there  beside  the  bubbling  fount 

The  date  its  welcome  shadow  threw, 

And  many  a  child  was  seen  to  mount, 

And  pluck  the  fruit  that  on  it  grew; 

And  with  its  broad  and  pendent  boughs, 

The  thickly  tufted  sycamore, 

The  image  of  profound  repose, 

Waved  silently  along  the  shore; 

And  mangroves  bent  their  limbs  to  taste 

The  wave,  that  calmly  floated  by, 

And  showed  beneath,  as  purely  glassed, 

A  softer  image  of  the  sky; 

And  groves  of  myrtle  sweetly  blew, 

And  hung  their  boughs  with  spikes  of  snow, 

And  beds  of  flowering  cassia  threw 

A  splendour  like  the  morning  glow; 

And  o'er  the  wild,  that  stretched  away 

To  meet  the  sands,  now  steeped  with  rain, 

The  lilies,  in  their  proud  array, 

With  pictured  brightness  gemmed  the  plain; 

And  roses,  damask,  white,  and  red, 

Stood  breathing  perfume  on  the  rocks, 

And  there  the  dry  acacia  spread 

Its  deep,  unfading  yellow  locks ; 

And  gardens  brighter  bloomed  the  while 

Around  the  silver  tiled  kiosk, 

And  brighter  shone  with  sacred  smile 

The  gilded  crescent  on  the  mosque; 


349 


And  over  all  calm  evening  drew 

A  tender,  softly  dimming  veil, 

And  mellowed  down  each  gayer  hue 

To  tints,  that  seemed  divinely  pale  ; 

It  was  a  lovely  resting  place, 

The  traveller's  home,  the  pilgrim's  well, 

Where  he  might  sit  at  ease  and  trace 

His  wanderings,  and  his  dangers  tell ; 

It  rose  at  once  upon  their  sight, 

Like  paradise  from  Heaven  descending, 

And  there,  with  keen  and  eager  light, 

Each  look,  in  panting  hope,  was  bending ; 

An  island  on  the  pathless  waste, 

It  caught  the  weary  camel's  eye, 

And  on  he  flew  in  wildest  haste, 

As  if  to  drink  the  wave,  and  die ; 

And  there  the  fainting  Bedouin  gazed, 

As  if  the  cup  of  life  were  given, 

And  then  with  thankful  look  he  raised 

His  withered  hands  in  prayer  to  Heaven  ; 

And  as  he  hurried  on  his  road 

O'er  burning  sand,  and  flinty  rock, 

Before  his  eye  the  phantom  flowed, 

A  flattering,  but  delusive  mock; 

Its  brightest  tints  grew  wan  and  pale, 

Its  fairer  features  faded  dim, 

Till  in  a  dark  and  lonely  vale 

A  mist  alone  was  seen  to  swim; 


350 

And  as  the  tear  in  anguish  stole, 
The  last  and  faintest  beam  of  day 
Fled,  and  the  dream  was  seen  to  roll 
And  vanish  in  the  night  away; 
And  cold  the  wild  Harmattan  blew, 
And  rolled  the  dusty  billow  by, 
But  still  no  welcome  rain  nor  dew 
Came  down  to  soothe  their  misery ; 
Parched,  burnt,  in  agony  they  tread 
The  waste,  in  hopeless  longing,  o'er, 
A  frowning  sky  above  their  head, 
A  shoreless  sea  of  sand  before. 

And  life  is  but  a  fairy  tale — 
Its  fondest  and  its  brightest  hours 
Are  transient  as  the  passing  gale, 
Or  drops  of  dew  that  melt  in  flowers ; 
And  life  is  but  a  fleeting  dream, 
A  shadow  of  a  pictured  sky, 
The  airy  phantom  of  a  stream, 
That  flattering  smiles,  and  hurries  by ; 
The  mists  that  hover  o'er  the  deep,* 
And  seem  the  storm-beat  sailor's  home, 
And  still  retiring,  always  keep 
Their  station  on  the  farthest  foam ; 

*  The  Mirage  of  the  Ocean. 


351 


Till  imaged  out,  his  woods  and  hills, 

His  father's  cot,  the  village  spire, 

And  all  his  heated  fancy  wills, 

And  all  his  eager  hopes  desire, 

The  white  chalk  coast  that  fronts  the  billow. 

The  boat  that  trimly  scuds  below, 

The  brook  that  glides  beneath  the  willow, 

With  lulling  chime  and  quiet  flow; 

Till  all  he  loves,  and  all  he  longs 

To  meet  and  fold  his  arms  around, 

Come  crowding  in  alluring  throngs, 

And  every  charm  of  home  is  found ; 

And  round  the  ship  the  meadow  lies, 

That  filled  his  hand  with  flowers  in  May, 

And  as  the  billows  onward  rise, 

They  spread  and  blossom  green  and  gay ; 

But  if  he  stoop  to  pluck  the  grass, 

That  waves  in  frolic  mimicry, 

Away  the  darling  phantoms  pass, 

And  leave  alone  the  bitter  sea: 

And  life  is  but  a  painted  bow, 

That  crowns  our  days  to  come  with  smiles, 

The  mingled  tints  of  Heaven,  that  throw 

Their  pomp  on  glory's  airy  piles ; 

But  when  we  run  to  catch  the  gay 

And  glittering  pageant,  all  is  o'er, 

And  all  its  bright  and  rich  array 

Can  draw  us  fondly  on  no  more: 


352  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 


like  the  moon  who  shines  so  clear 
Above  the  mountains  and  the  groves, 
And  seems  to  float  along  so  near 
The  boy,  he  grasps  the  moon,  he  loves, 
And  dreams,  it  is  some  sweet,  bright  face, 
Who  smiles  in  such  a  pleasant  sky, 
And  he  would  think  it  Heaven  to  pass 
His  still,  soft  nights,  that  maiden  by; 
He  sits  upon  the  grassy  bank, 
And  rests  his  face  upon  his  hand 
And  looks  intent,  as  if  he  drank 
The  light  that  silver  sea  and  land; 
And  though  she  smiles  so  sweetly  on 
Her  fond  and  loving  shepherd  boy, 
The  same  bright  face  is  ever  won 
By  those,  who  make  the  night  their  joy  : 
O  !  life  and  all  its  charms  decay, 
Alluring,  cheating,  on  they  go  ; 
The  stream  for  ever  steals  away 
In  one  irrevocable  flow  ; 
Its  dearest  charms,  the  charms  of  love, 
Are  fairest  in  their  bud,  and  die 
Whene'er  their  tender  bloom  we  move, 
We  touch  the  leaves,  they  withered  lie  ; 
At  distance  all  how  gay,  how  sweet, 
A  very  land  of  fairy  blisses, 
Where  smiles,  and  tears,  and  soft  words  meet. 
And  willing  lips  unite  in  kisses  ; 


353 


But  when  we  touch  the  magic  shore, 
The  glow  is  gone,  the  charm  is  fled; 
We  find  the  dearest  hues  it  wore, 
Are  but  the  light  around  the  dead, 
And  cold  the  hymeneal  chain, 
That  binds  their  cheated  hearts  in  one. 
And  on,  with  many  a  step  of  pain, 
Their  weary  race  is  sadly  run ; 
And  still,  as  on  they  plod  their  way, 
They  find,  as  life's  gay  dreams  depart. 
To  close  their  being's  toilsome  day, 
Nought  left  them  but  a  broken  heart. 

THE  FAIREST  ROSE  IS  FAR  AWA* 

THE  morn  is  blinking  o'er  the  hills 
With  softened  light  and  colours  gay; 
Through  grove  and  valley  sweetly  trills 
The  melody  of  early  day; 
The  dewy  roses  blooming  fair 
Glitter  around  her  father's  ha', 
But  still  my  Mary  is  not  there — 
The  fairest  rose  is  far  awa.' 

The  cooling  zephyrs  gently  blow 
Along  the  dew-bespangled  mead — 
In  every  field  the  owsen  low — 

The  careless  shepherd  tunes  his  reed — 
45 


354 

And  while  the  roses  blossom  fair, 
My  lute  with  softly  dying  fa' 
Laments  that  Mary  is  not  there — 
The  fairest  rose  is  far  awa'. 

The  thrush  is  singing  on  the  hills, 
And  charms  the  groves  that  wave  around. 
And  through  the  vale  the  winding,  rills 
Awake  a  softly  murmuring  sound; 
The  robin  tunes  his  mellow  throat 
Where  glittering  roses  sweetly  blaw, 
But  grieves  that  Mary  hears  him  not — 
The  fairest  rose  is  far  awa'. 

Why  breathe  thy  melody  in  vain 
Thou  lovely  songster  of  the  morn — 
Why  pour  thy  ever-varying  strain 
Amid  the  sprays  of  yonder  thorn — 
Do  not  the  roses  blooming  fair, 
At  morning's  dawn  or  evening's  fa', 
Tell  thee  of  one  that  is  not  there — 
The  fairest  rose  that's  far  awa'. 


THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  VALLEY. 


SWEET  flower  of  the  valley,  why  droopest  thou  so 

low, 

Ah!  why  is  thy  beauty  all  faded  and  gone, 
Ah !  who  could  destroy  thee — who  wield  the  sad  blow, 
Who  rifle  thy  charms  in  their  earliest  dawn? 

So  gay  was  the  morning,  that  rose  as  you  blew, 
So  fragrant  the  zephyrs  that  fluttered  around — 
So  soft  did'st  thou  smile  through  thy  mantle  of  dew, 
No  lovelier  flower  in  the  valley  was  found. 

But  see,  on  the  turf  all  thy  beauties  are  laid, 
Thy  leaves,  they  are  scattered,  thy  sweetness  is  gone: 
Thy  colours — once  gay  as  the  rainbow — now  fade 
As  fast,  as  the  hues  that  enliven  the  dawn. 

Sweet  flower !  once  the  sweetest  that  bloomed  in  the 

vale — 

Sweet  flower !  we  will  weep,  for  thy  beauties  are  fled — 
For  those  charms  that  are  gone  we  will  pour  the  sad 

wail, 
And  chant  o'er  thy  ruins  the  dirge  of  the  dead. 


Written  on  hearing  a  lady  sing  in  the  tower  of 
Montevideo,  near  Hartford. 

THE  soft  dews  of  twilight  are  steeping  the  plain. 
And  gemming  the  boughs  of  the  willow — 
The  eve-star  is  lighting  its  twinkle  again, 
To  shine  on  the  foam  of  the  billow — 

The  south  breeze  is  brushing  the  breast  of  the  lake. 
That  swells  with  a  light  heaving  motion, 
And  its  ripple  is  heard  on  the  pebbles  to  break 
Like  the  slumbering  wave  of  the  ocean — 

The  gale  on  its  pinions  of  gossamer  flies 
Through  the  boughs  of  the  low  bending  willow. 
And  sweeping  the  forest,  it  mournfully  sighs 
O'er  the  turf  of  my  flowery  pillow — 

It  bears  on  its  wing,  from  the  dark  lonely  tower, 
O'er  the  mead,  and  the  wave's  "  playful  motion," 
The  song  of  the  maid,  who  at  eve's  balmy  hour 
Sings  her  sweet  breathing  strain  of  devotion : 

Like  the  hymn  of  a  seraph,  it  floats  through  the  grove. 
And  sighs  o'er  the  slope  of  the  mountain  ; 
How  sweet — how  enchanting  its  warble  of  love- 
How  it  lulls,  like  the  flow  of  the  fountain. 


357 


As  I  listen,  I  fancy  the  dew-dropping  cloud. 
That  glows  with  a  lovely  "  to-morrow," 
An  angel  conceals  in  its  ebony  shroud, 
Whose  harp  breathes  her  accent  of  sorrow. 


ONCE,  on  a  cloudless  summer-day, 
Beneath  a  mantling  vine  I  lay, 
When  Cupid  came  by  chance  that  way, 

And  aimed  at  me  an  arrow. 

He  laid  the  dart  upon  the  bow, 
And  drew  the  horn  and  sinew  so — 
And  said,  "  my  friend,  you  soon  will 
How  keenly  stings  my  arrow." 

His  cheek  was  gay,  his  eye  was  bright, 
And  shot  a  piercing,  bitter  light — 
He  drew  the  nerve  all  tense  and  tight, 
And  then  let  fly  his  arrow. 

The  bow  twanged  sharp,  and  with  a  bound 
At  once  its  mark  the  weapon  found; 
I  tingled  with  the  fiery  wound 
Of  that  soul-kindling  arrow. 


358  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

He  flapped  his  wings,  away  he  flew, 
And  turning  backward  looked  me  through, 
And  slily  laughed,  as  forth  I  drew 
The  heart-encrimsoned  arrow. 

I  felt  my  blood  like  lava  glow, 
I  writhed,  and  twined,  and  wrestled  so, 
As  madmen  in  their  dying  throe — 
I  broke  and  cursed  the  arrow. 

It  is  indeed  a  cruel  thing, 
When  early  youth  is  on  the  wing, 
To  feel,  and  keenly  feel  the  sting 
Of  such  a  poisoned  arrow. 


MY  heart  too  firmly  trusted,  fondly  gave 
Itself  to  all  its  tenderness  a  slave ; 
I  had  no  wish  but  thee  and  only  thee ; 
I  saw  no  joy,  no  hope,  beyond  thy  smile; 
I  knew  no  happiness,  but  only  while 
Thy  love-lit  eyes  were  kindly  turned  on  me. 

I  took  the  tender  image  to  my  breast, 
I  made  it  there  a  dear,  a  cherished  guest, 


PERCIVAL  S    POEMS. 

I  laid  it  on  the  pillow  of  my  soul ; 
I  gave  it  all  my  feeling,  and  around 
The  fond  idea  all  my  heart-strings  bound; 
In  that  one  point  I  blent  my  being's  whole. 

But  thou  hast  gone,  and  left  me  here  to  bear 

The  weight  of  loneliness — thou  thinkest  not,  where 

Bright  forms  caress  thee,  of  my  bosom  torn 

By  thee  so  coldly — but  I  cannot  rend 

Thy  image  from  my  heart,  I  cannot  blend 

Hate  with  the  love  so  long,  so  fondly  borne. 

I  feel  my  spirit  falter,  and  my  frame 

Trembling  and  faint  with  weakness,  but  the  flame 

Of  passion  burns  as  brightly — I  will  lay 

My  forehead  on  my  pillow,  and  resign 

My  bosom  to  its  torture,  nor  repine, 

And  let  the  fire  consume  my  life  away. 


TO  SE1VECA  LAKE, 


ON  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake! 
The  wild  swan  spreads  his  snowy  sail, 
And  round  his  breast  the  ripples  break, 
As  down  he  bears  before  the  gale. 


360  PEHCJVAL'S   POEMS, 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  waveless  stream! 
The  dipping  paddle  echoes  far, 
And  flashes  in  the  moonlight  gleam. 
And  bright  reflects  the  polar  star. 

The  waves  along  thy  pebbly  shore, 

As  blows  the  north-wind,  heave  their  foam, 

And  curl  around  the  dashing  oar, 

As  late  the  boatman  hies  him  home. 

How  sweet,  at  set  of  sun,  to  view 
Thy  golden  mirror  spreading  wide, 
And  see  the  mist  of  mantling  blue 
Float  round  the  distant  mountain's  side. 

At  midnight  hour,  as  shines  the  moon, 
A  sheet  of  silver  spreads  below, 
And  swift  she  cuts,  at  highest  noon, 
Light  clouds,  like  wreaths  of  purest  snow. 

On  thy  fair  bosom,  silver  lake ! 
O !  I  could  ever  sweep  the  oar, 
When  early  birds  at  morning  wake. 
And  evening  tells  us  toil  is  o'er. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  .361 


"HOW  beautiful  is  Night!" 
A  smile  is  on  her  brow; 
Her  eyes  of  dewy  light 
Look  out,  serenely  bright, 
Upon  the  wave  below : 
The  waters,  in  their  flow, 
Just  murmur,  and  the  air 
Hath  scarce  a  breath  to  show 
A  spirit  moving  there : 
The  world  is  purely  fair; 
The  winds  are  hushed  and  still; 
The  moonlight  on  the  hill 
Is  sleeping,  and  her  ray 
Along  the  falling  rill, 
In  lightly  dancing  play. 
Soft-winding  steals  away : 
A  cool  and  silent  breath, 
From  water-falls  and  streams, 
Comes  o'er  my  ear,  like  dreams^ 
Which,  in  the  pictured  death 
Of  slumber,  on  the  soul 
Delicious  whispers  roll; 
And  lead,  in  mazy  light, 
Before  the  spirit's  eye, 
46 


362 


Sweet  visions  of  delight, 

In  trains  of  beauty,  by. — 

How  fair  and  calm  is  Night! 

Amid  the  dewy  bowers 

She  guides  the  silent  hours, 

With  fairy  steps,  along, 

And  round  the  floating  throng 

A  cloudy  vesture  throws; 

And  loosely  on  the  air 

She  spreads  their  raven  hair 

To  every  wind  that  blows : 

They  seem  to  hover  by 

Between  me  and  the  sky, 

Each  with  a  golden  zone, 

A  waving  robe  of  snow, 

A  veil,  whose  folds  are  thrown 

In  undulating  flow, 

Like  clouds,  when  breezes  blow; 

So  to  my  fancy's  view 

The  sylphid  people  play 

Around  the  vaulted  blue, 

And  then  they  melt  away, 

And  leave  the  sky  all  bright, 

With  lamps  of  living  light ; 

And  as  I  fondly  gaze, 

Where  countless  cressets  blaze, 

I  look  to  Heaven  and  say — 

"How  beautiful  is  Night!" 


363 


OFTEN,  when  at  night  delaying, 
Where  the  winding  river  flows, 
On  the  silent  waters  playing 
How  the  star  of  beauty  glows ; 
In  the  clear  wave  brightly  sparkling, 
Brightly  as  the  love-lit  eye, 
Now  again  its  beams  are  darkling, 
As  the  clouds  athwart  it  fly: 
With  a  soft  and  tender  feeling 
Then  I  whisper  out  my  song, 
While  the  mellow  brook  is  stealing 
Silently  the  sand  along. 

There  is  in  that  twinkling  planet 
More  than  all  the  stars  can  boast, 
And  my  fond  eye  loves  to  scan  it, 
Like  a  light-house  on  a  coast, 
Where  the  budding  spring  is  ever 
Pranking  out  her  wooing  bowers, 
And  the  locks  of  beauty  never 
Float  without  a  crown  of  flowers, 
And  her  eye  is  ever  straying 
Round  and  round  with  kindling  beam, 
Like  her  own  bright  planet  playing 
Sweetly  on  the  silent  stream. 


364 


Now  the  star  is  near  the  mountain 
Slowly  setting  in  the  west, 
Shining  on  a  crisping  fountain, 
Or  a  lakelet's  ruffled  breast ; 
Now  its  maiden  brightness  mingles 
With  the  mist  that  hovers  there, 
Rising  from  the  woody  dingles, 
Like  a  streaming  tress  of  hair ; 

Now  a  form  is  imaged  round  it, 

'Tis  the  form  that  I  adore, 

Every  charm  of  earth  has  crowned  it, 

Fairer  beauty  never  wore : 

O  !  how  dear  that  tender  feeling, 

When  the  rays  of  beauty  play, 

Where  the  mellow  brook  is  stealing, 

Lighted  by  the  moon,  away. 

SONG. 

O !  PURE  is  the  wind, 
As  it  blows  o'er  the  mountain; 
And  clear  is  the  wave, 
As  it  flows  from  the  fountain^ 
And  sweet  are  the  flowers 
In  the  green  meadow  blooming; 
And  gay  are  the  bowers, 
When  the  soft  air  perfuming- 


365 


O!  go,  dearest,  go 
To  the  heath,  and  the  mountain, 
Where  the  blue  violets  blow 
On  the  brin  k  of  the  fountain ; 
Where  nothing,  but  death, 
Our  affection  can  sever; 
And  till  life's  latest  breath 
Love  shall  bind  us  for  ever. 

O !  bright  is  the  morn, 
When  it  breaks  on  the  valley; 
And  shrill  is  the  horn, 
When  the  wild  huntsmen  sally ; 
And  clear  shines  the  dew, 
As  the  hounds  hurry  o'er  it; 
And  light  blows  the  wind, 
As  the  sail  flies  before  it. 
O!  go,  dearest,  go,  &LC. 

O !  soft  is  the  mist, 
When  it  curls  round  the  island; 
And  dark  is  the  cloud, 
As  it  hangs  on  the  highland; 
And  sweet  chimes  the  rill, 
O'er  the  white  pebble  flowing; 
And  quick  glides  the  boat 
O'er  the  smooth  water  rowing. 
O!  go,  dearest,  go,  &c. 


366 


O !  fleet  is  the  deer 
Through  the  blue  heather  springing, 
And  loud  is  the  shout 
Through  the  wild  valley  ringing; 
And'  soft  is  the  flute 
O'er  the  lake  faintly  sighing, 
When  the  wide  air  is  mute, 
And  the  night-wind  is  dying. 
O!  go,  dearest,  go,  &c. 

O!  go,  dearest,  go 
To  the  heath  and  the  mountain: 
Where  the  heart  shall  be  pure, 
As  the  clear-flowing  fountain  ; 
Where  the  soul  shall  be  free, 
As  the  winds,  that  blow  o'er  us ; 
And  the  sunset  of  life 
Smile  in  beauty  before  us. 
O  !  go,  dearest,  go 
To  the  heath,  and  the  mountain, 
Where  the  blue  violets  blow 
On  the  brink  of  the  fountain  ; 
Where  nothing,  but  death, 
Our  affection  can  sever ; 
And  till  life's  latest  breath 
Love  shall  bind  us  for  ever. 


367 


O!  HAD  I  the  wings  of  a  swallow,  I'd  fly 
Where  the  roses  are  blossoming  all  the  year  long, 
Where  the  landscape  is  always  a  feast  to  the  eye, 
And  the  bills  of  the  warblers  are  ever  in  song; 
O !  then  I  would  fly  from  the  cold  and  the  snow, 
And  hie  to  the  land  of  the  orange  and  vine, 
And  carol  the  winter  away  in  the  glow, 
That  rolls  o'er  the  ever  green  bowers  of  the  line. 

Indeed,  I  should  gloomily  steal  o'er  the  deep, 

Like  the  storm-loving  petrel,  that  skims  there,  alone  5 

I  would  take  me  a  dear  little  martin  to  keep 

A  sociable  flight  to  the  tropical  zone : 

How  cheerily,  wing  by  wing,  over  the  sea 

We  would  fly  from  the  dark  clouds  of  winter  away, 

And  for  ever  our  song  and  our  twitter  should  be, 

"  To  the  land  where  the  year  is  eternally  gay." 

We  would  nestle  awhile  in  the  jessamine  bowers, 
And  take  up  our  lodge  in  the  crown  of  the  palm, 
And  live,  like  the  bee,  on  its  fruits  and  its  flowers, 
That  always  are  flowing  with  honey  and  balm ; 
And  there  we  would  stay,  till  the  winter  is  o'er, 
And  April  is  chequered  with  sunshine  and  rain — 
O !  then  we  would  flit  from  that  far-distant  shore 
Over  island  and  wave  to  our  country  again. 


368 


How  light  we  would  skim,  where  the  billows  are  rolled 
Through  clusters  that  bend  with  the  cane  and  the  lime; 
And  break  on  the  beaches  in  surges  of  gold, 
When  morning  comes  forth  in  her  loveliest  prime : 
We  would  touch  for  a  while,  as  we  traversed  the  ocean. 
At  the  islands  that  echoed  to  Waller  and  Moore, 
And  winnow  our  wings  with  an  easier  motion 
Through  the  breath  of  the  cedar  that  blows  from  the 
shore. 

And  when  we  had  rested  our  wings,  and  had  fed 
On  the  sweetness  that  comes  from  the  juniper  groves, 
By  the  spirit  of  home  and  of  infancy  led, 
We  would  hurry  again  to  the  land  of  our  loves ; 
And  when  from  the  breast  of  the  ocean  would  spring, 
Far  off  in  the  distance,  that  dear  native  shore, 
In  the  joy  of  our  hearts  we  would  cheerily  sing, 
"  No  land  is  so  lovely,  when  winter  is  o'er." 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  BLEST. 


THE  sunset  is  calm  on  the  face  of  the  deep, 
And  bright  is  the  last  look  of  day  in  the  west, 
And  broadly  the  beams  of  its  parting  glance  sweep, 
Like  the  path  that  conducts  to  the  land  of  the  blest : 


PERCIVAI/S    POEMS.  369 

All  golden  and  green  is  the  sea,  as  it  flows 

In  billows  just  heaving  its  tide  to  the  shore ; 

And  crimson  and  blue  is  the  sky,  as  it  glows 

With  the  colours,  which  tell  us  that  day-light  is  o'er. 

I  sit  on  a  rock,  that  hangs  over  the  wave, 

And  the  foam  heaves  and  tosses  its  snow-wreaths  below, 

And  the  flakes,  gilt  with  sunbeams,  the  flowing  tide 

pave, 

Like  the  gems  that  in  gardens  of  sorcery  grow : 
I  sit  on  the  rock,  and  I  watch  the  light  fade 
Still  fainter  and  fainter  away  in  the  west, 
And  I  dream,  I  can  catch,  through  the  mantle  of  shade, 
A  glimpse  of  the  dim,  distant  land  of  the  blest. 

And  I  long  for  a  home  in  that  land  of  the  soul, 
Where  hearts  always  warm  glow  with  friendship  and 

love, 

And  days  ever  cloudless  still  cheerily  roll, 
Like  the  age  of  eternity  blazing  above  : 
There,  with  friendships  unbroken,  and  loves  ever  true, 
Life  flows  on,  one  gay  dream  of  pleasure  and  rest  5 
And  green  is  the  fresh  turf,  the  sky  purely  blue, 
That  mantle  and  arch  o'er  the  land  of  the  blest. 

The  last  line  of  light  is  now  crossing  the  sea, 
And  the  first  star  is  lighting  its  lamp  in  the  sky; 
It  seems  that  a  sweet  voice  is  calling  to  me, 
Like  a  bird  on  that  pathway  of  brightness  to  fly ; 

47 


370 


"  Far  over  the  wave  is  a  green  sunny  isle, 
Where  the  last  cloud  of  evening  now  shines  in  the  west; 
'Tis  the  island  that  Spring  ever  woos  with  her  smile; 
O !  seek  it — the  bright  happy  land  of  the  blest." 


RETROSPECTION. 

THERE  are  moments  in  life,  which  are  never  forgot. 
Which  brighten,  and  brighten,  as  time  steals  away; 
They  give  a  new  charm  to  the  happiest  lot, 
And  they  shine  on  the  gloom  of  the  loneliest  day: 
These  moments  are  hallowed  by  smiles  and  by  tears: 
The  first  look  of  love,  and  the  last  parting  given ; 
As  the  sun,  in  the  dawn  of  his  glory,  appears, 
And  the  cloud  weeps  and  glows  with  the  rainbow  in 
Heaven. 

There   are  hours — there  are  minutes,   which  memory 

brings, 

Like  blossoms  of  Eden,  to  twine  round  the  heart; 
And  as  time  rushes  by  on  the  might  of  his  wings, 
They  may  darken  awhile,  but  they  never  depart: 
O!  these  hallowed  remembrances  cannot  decay, 
But  they  come  on  the  soul  with  a  magical  thrill; 
And  in  days  that  are  darkest,  they  kindly  will  stay, 
And  the  heart,  in  its  last  throb,  will  beat  with  them 

still. 


371 

They  come,  like  the  dawn  in  its  loveliness,  now, 
The  same  look  of  beauty,  that  shot  to  my  soul ; 
The  snows  of  the  mountain  are  bleached  on  her  brow, 
And  her  eyes,  in  the  blue  of  the  firmament,  roll : 
The  roses  are  dim  by  her  cheek's  living  bloom, 
And  her  coral  lips  part,  like  the  opening  of  flowers; 
She  moves  through  the  air  in  a  cloud  of  perfume, 
Like  the  wind  from  the  blossoms  of  jessamine  bowers. 

From  her  eye's  melting  azure  there  sparkles  a  flame, 
That  kindled  my  young  blood  to  ecstacy's  glow; 
She  speaks — and  the  tones  of  her  voice  are  the  same, 
As  would  once,  like  the  wind-harp,  in  melody  flow: 
That  touch,  as  her  hand  meets  and  mingles  with  mine, 
Shoots  along  to  my  heart,  with  electrical  thrill; 
'T  was  a  moment,  for  earth  too  supremely  divine, 
And  while  life  lasts,  its  sweetness  shall  cling  to  me  still. 

We  met — and  we  drank  from  the  crystalline  well 

That  flows  from  the  fountain  of  science  above ; 

On  the  beauties  of  thought  we  would  silently  dwell, 

Till  we  looked — though  we  never  were  talking  of  love : 

We  parted — the  tear  glistened  bright  in  her  eye, 

And  her  melting  hand  shook,  as  I  dropped  it  for  ever; 

O !  that  moment  will  always  be  hovering  by, 

Life  may  frown — but  its  light  shall  abandon  me — never. 


CALM  AT  SEA. 


THE  night  is  clear, 
The  sky  is  fair, 

The  wave  is  resting  on  the  ocean; 
And  far  and  near 
The  silent  air 
Just  lifts  the  flag  with  faintest  motion. 

There  is  no  gale 

To  fill  the  sail, 

No  wind  to  heave  the  curling  billow ; 

The  streamers  droop, 

And  trembling  stoop, 

Like  boughs,  that  crown  the  weeping  willow. 

From  off  the  shore 

Is  heard  the  roar 

Of  waves  in  softest  motion  rolling; 

The  twinkling  stars, 

And  whispering  airs 

Are  all  to  peace  the  heart  controllingi 

The  moon  is  bright, 
Her  ring  of  light. 


373 

In  silver,  pales  the  blue  of  Heaven, 

Or  tints  with  gold, 

Where  lightly  rolled, 

Like  fleecy  snow,  the  rack  is  driven. 

How  calm  and  clear 

The  silent  air! 

How  smooth  and  still  the  glassy  ocean ! 

While  stars  above 

Seem  lamps  of  love, 

To  light  the  temple  of  devotion. 


MY  heart  was  a  mirror,  that  showed  every  treasure 
Of  beauty  and  loveliness,  life  can  display ; 
It  reflected  each  beautiful  blossom  of  pleasure, 
But  turned  from  the  dark  looks  of  bigots  away; 
It  was  living  and  moving  with  loveliest  creatures, 
In  smiles  or  in  tears,  as  the  soft  spirit  chose; 
Now  shining  with  brightest  and  ruddiest  features, 
Now  pale  as  the  snow  of  the  dwarf  mountain  rose. 

These  visions  of  sweetness  for  ever  were  playing, 
Like  butterflies  fanning  the  still  summer  air ; 
Some  sported  a  moment,  some,  never  decaying, 
In  deep  hues  of  love  are  still  lingering  there : 


•374  PERCIVAL'S  POEMS. 

At  times  some  fair  spirit,  descending  from  Heaven, 
Would  shroud  all  the  rest  in  the  blaze  of  its  light ; 
Then  wood  nymphs  and  fays  o'er  the  mirror  were  driven, 
Like  the  fire-swarms,  that  kindle  the  darkness  of  night. 

But  the  winds  and  the  storms  broke  the  mirror,  and 

severed 

Full  many  a  beautiful  angel  in  twain; 
And  the  tempest  raged   on,   till   the   fragments   wer^ 

shivered 

And  scattered,  like  dust,  as  it  rolls  o'er  the  plain : 
One  piece,  which  the  storm,  in  its  madness,  neglected 
Away,  on  the  wings  of  the  whirlwind,  to  bear, 
One  fragment  was  left,  and  that  fragment  reflected 
All  the  beauty,  that  MARY  threw  carelessly  there. 


O!  NOW'S  the  hour,  when  air  is  sweet, 
And  birds  are  all  in  tune, 
To  seek  with  me  the  cool  retreat, 
In  bright  and  merry  June; 
When  everj7  rose-bush  has  a  nest, 
And  every  thorn  a  flower, 
And  every  thing  on  earth  is  blest, 
This  sweet  and  holy  hour. 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  375 

O  come,  my  dear,  when  evening  flings 

Her  veil  of  purple  round, 

And  zephyr,  on  his  dewy  wings, 

Sweeps  o'er  the  flowery  ground  ; 

When  every  bird  of  day  is  still, 

And  stars  are  bright  above, 

O  come,  my  dear,  and  we  will  fill 

Our  cup,  and  drink  of  love. 

We'll  fill  it  from  the  pure  blue  sky, 

And  from  the  glowing  west, 

And  catch  its  spirit  in  thine  eye, 

And  in  the  small  bird's  nest; 

And  take  its  sweetness  from  the  flowers, 

Its  freshness  from  the  spring, 

Its  coolness  from  the  dewy  hours. 

When  night-hawks  take  the  wing. 

Then  we  will  wander  far  away, 

Along  the  flowery  vale, 

Where  winds  the  brook,  in  sparkling  play, 

And  freshly  blows  the  gale; 

And  we  will  sit  beneath  the  shade, 

That  maples  weave  above, 

And  on  the  mossy  pillow  laid, 

Will  drink  the  cup  of  love. 


376 


O !  WILT  thou  go  with  me,  loveT 
And  seek  the  lonely  glen? 
O !  wilt  thou  leave  for  me,  love, 
The  smiles  of  other  men  ? — 
The  birds  are  there  aye  singing, 
And  the  woods  are  full  of  glee, 
And  love  shall  there  be  flinging 
His  roses  over  thee. 

O !  wilt  thou  go  with  me,  dear, 

And  share  my  humble  lot? 

O !  wilt  thou  live  with  me,  dear, 

Within  a  lowly  cot? — 

Though  beauty  hath  enshrouded  thee 

With  all  that's  sweet  and  fair, 

The  sorrows,  that  have  clouded  thee, 

Shall  all  be  wanting  there. 

O !  wilt  thou  go  with  me,  Anne, 
To  yonder  mountain  side, 
And  happy  there  in  me,  Anne, 
Ne'er  sigh  for  aught  beside? — 
Oh !   Heaven  shall  there  be  over  us 
Unclouded,  pure,  and  bright, 
And  wings  of  love  shall  cover  us, 
And  all  around  be  light. 


FERCIVAL  S    POEMS. 


377 


Yes,  thou  wilt  go  with  me,  love, 

I  see  it  in  thy  smile, 

And  I  will  be  to  thee,  love, 

Thy  shelter  all  the  while; 

And  thou  shalt  spread  thy  bloom  around, 

And  be  all  sweet  and  fair, 

And  every  sight,  and  touch,  and  sound 

Shall  be  ecstatic  there. 

Yes,  thou  wilt  go  with  me,  dear, 
The  cot  shall  be  thy  home, 
And  never  near  its  roof,  dear, 
Shall  want  or  sorrow  come; 
O!  I  will  be  the  parent  dove, 
That  hovers  o'er  her  nest, 
And  we  will  know  how  sweet  is  love 
Caressing  and  caressed. 

Yes,  thou  wilt  go  with  me,  Anne, 
Though  seas  are  now  'between, 
And  thou  wilt  dwell  with  me,  Anne, 
in  woodlands  flowered  and  green; 
I  cannot  cross  the  sea  to  thee, 
I  do  not  love  that  shore, 
So  cross  the  ocean,  dear,  to  me, 
And  we  will  part  no  more. 


48 


378 


HERE  the  air  is  sweet, 
Fresh  from  the  roses  newly  blowing; 
Here  the  waters  meet, 
Down  the  grassy  valley  flowing; 
Here  the  bands  of  ivy  twine, 
Here  the  bells  in  yellow  shine 
On  the  flowering  gelsemine, 
Round  the  woven  trellice  growing. 

Here  the  flitting  breeze 

Wafts  afar  the  musky  treasure, 

And  the  wanton  bees 

Sip  the  honied  fount  of  pleasure; 

Here  the  loving  spirits  dwell, 

Here  they  sit,  and  weave  their  spell, 

And  within  the  blossom's  bell 

Tune  their  soul-dissolving  measure. 

Here  the  wind  is  balm, 

Laden  with  the  breath  of  roses ; 

Here  the  air  is  calm, 

And  the  sleeping  noon-flower  closes; 

Now  the  sun  is  setting  bright, 

And  his  arch  of  purple  light 

Heralding  the  summer  night, 

Earth  in  dreams  of  bliss  reposes. 


379 


Here's  a  magic  bower — 

O'er  it  budding  vines  are  creeping, 

And  a  dewy  shower, 

By  a  bank  of  turf  is  steeping; 

Though  the  fallen  winds  are  mute, 

Faintly  from  the  sweet-blowrn  flute, 

Tones,  that  with  the  stillness  suit, 

Harmonies  of  love  are  keeping. 


I  am  here  alone — 


. 

Far  has  fled  my  flowery  dreaming, 

All  its  beauty  flown 

Like  a  bow  by  moonlight  gleaming, 

Fancy's  day  of  love  is  o'er, 

All  its  rich  and  golden  store 

Ne'er  can  charm  my  spirit  more 

With  its  false,  but  fairy  seeming. 


THE  WANDERING  SPIRIT. 


THERE'S  a  voice  that  is  heard  in  the  depth  of  the 

sky, 

Where  nothing  is  seen,  but  the  blue-tinted  Heaven; 
That  voice  with  the  wind  rolls  its  mellowness  by, 
And  a  few  notes  alone  to  our  fond  ears  are  given : 


'*)'. 


380 

The  spirit,  who  sings  it,  still  hastens  away, 

He  is  doomed  round  the  wide  earth  for  ever  to  roam. 

He  may  settle  a  moment,  but  never  will  stay, 

For  he  ne'er  found,  and  never  will  find  here  a  home. 

There  is  grief  in  the  voice,  as  it  comes  through  the  air, 
Like  the  low-moaning  wind  in  the  calmness  of  Even, 
Or  the  tone,  as  we  dream,  of  the  angels,  who  bear 
The  pure  soul,  that  rises  to  mingle  with  Heaven; 
t  was  clear,  when  it  first  came,  but  quickly  afar 
It  murmured  and  died,  like  the  wave  on  the  shore, 
When  the  mariner  hails  the  benevolent  star, 
That  rises  and  smiles,  and  the  tempest  is  o'er. 

O!  that  voice  is  the  dirge,  that  for  ever  is  sung 
O'er  the  wreck  and  the  ruin  of  beauty  and  love, 
But  in  ears  that  are  deaf,  is  its  melody  flung, 
There  are  none,  who  will  listen,  but  pure  ones  above  : 
O !  Earth  is  no  place  for  the  spirit,  who  feels 
Every  wound  of  the  heart  with  the  pang  of  despair, 
He  will  mourn  and  be  never  at  home,  till  he  steals 
To  the  skies,  and  the  bright  world,  that  welcomes  hint 
there. 


FAREWELL  TO  MY  LYRE. 


LYRE  of  my  soul !  the  parting  hour  draws  nigh, 
The  hour  that  tears  thy  votary  away — 
The  hour  when  death  shall  close  my  fading  eye, 
And  wrap  in  earth  my  cold  and  lifeless  clay. 

I  feel  his  icy  fingers  chill  my  heart, 
And  curdle  all  the  blood  that  warms  my  breast; 
Charm  of  my  darkest  moments !  soon  we  part — 
Soon  shall  thy  chords  in  endless  silence  rest. 

What  if  thy  sounds  have  charmed  the  coldest  ear — 
What  if  they  breathed  like  melody  divine — 
What  if  they  stole  the  fair  one's  purest  tear, 
Or  bade  the  downcast  eye  with  pleasure  shine ! 

Still  I  must  sink  in  Death's  unbroken  sleep, 
And  coldly  slumber  'neath  the  hallowed  ground; 
And  thou  must  all  thy  chords  in  silence  keep, 
Nor  sweetly  wake  them  to  the  feeblest  sound. 


382 

Sleep  in  yon  cypress  shade — its  heavy  gloom 
Becomes  the  awful  stillness  of  the  grave — 
Rest,  where  above  yon  maiden's  early  tomb, 
The  willow's  boughs  in  sorrow  seem  to  wave. 

There  should  the  fainting  zephyr,  whispering  by, 
Awake  one  note  along  thy  tuneful  string, 
Oh!  be  it  sadder  than  the  mourner's  sigh, 
And  in  my  ear  like  funeral  dirges  ring. 

Let  not  a  trill  of  joy  invade  my  ear, 
This  gloomy  hour  asks  nothing  of  delight — 
L'et  all  be  like  the  pall  that  shades  the  bier, 
Or  like  the  darkest  canopy  of  night. 

Let  no  sweet  songster  pour  its  witching  spell — 
No  voice  of  comfort  to  my  spirit  come ; 
Nought  but  the  echo  of  the  passing  bell, 
The  hollow  murmur  of  the  muffled  drum. 

And  yet  I  seem  to  hear  thy  seraph  strain 
Pour  like  a  gentle  stream  along  the  gale — 
It  ceases — now  its  music  wakes  again, 
And  breathes  as  sweetly  as  the  turtle's  wail. 

Ah,  I  would  brush  thy  chords  and  faintly  wake 
To  sounds  of  joy  thy  melody  awhile — 
Would  charm  my  heart  a  moment  ere  it  break, 
And  gild  my  dying  features  with  a  smile : 


383 


But  no  !   my  hand  refuses :  'tis  but  clay — 

The  touch  of  death  has  withered  all  its  powers — 

Soon  will  his  wings  my  spirit  waft  away 

From  thee — thou  charmer  of  my  darkest  hours ! 

Farewell,  thou  lyre  of  sweetest  minstrelsy ! 
Distraction  calls,  its  sufferer  must  obey — 
The  ruthless  hand  of  dark  adversity 
Has  chilled  my  soul,  and  torn  thy  chords  away : 

The  mist  of  death,  that  hovers  o'er  my  eyes, 
Withdraws  thy  lovely  image  from  my  view, 
Like  fancy's  midnight  dream,  th'  illusion  flies — 
Lyre  of  my  soul,  adieu !  a  long  adieu. 


CARE-WORN,  and  sunk  in  deep  despondency, 
I  bless  the  hours  that  lay  my  thought  at  rest : 
I  woo  the  covert  of  a  midnight  sky, 
But  sink  in  feverish  dreams  by  doubt  distrest. 

The  pleasing  morning  of  my  early  days, 
My  opening  fortune's  bright  and  flattering  bloom, 
Gone  are  they  all — and  mute  the  voice  of  praise, 
How  hard  to  one,  who  shone,  this  cruel  doom? 


384 

Would  I  were  in  some  lonely  desert  born, 
And  'neath  the  sordid  roof  my  being  drew; 
Were  nursed  by  poverty  the  most  forlorn, 
And  ne'er  one  ray  of  hope  or  pleasure  knew. 

Then  had  my  soul  been  never  taught  to  rise; 
Then  had  I  never  dreamed  of  power  or  fame ; 
No  pictured  scene  of  bliss  deceived  my  eyes, 
Nor  glory  lighted  in  my  breast  its  flame. 

What  to  the  wretch  like  me  this  towering  mind! 
'T  is  but  a  curse — a  pang  that  racks  the  soul. 
Better  in  humble  life  to  be  resigned 
To  ceaseless  toil,  as  round  the  seasons  roll. 

Happy  the  life,  that  in  a  peaceful  stream, 
Obscure,  unnoticed,  through  the  vale  has  flowed ; 
The  heart  that  ne'er  was  charmed  by  fortune's  gleam, 
Is  ever  sweet  contentment's  blest  abode. 

But  can  I  leave  the  scenes,  my  fancy  drew 
In  colours  rich  as  Heaven,  and  strong  as  light; 
Can  I  avert  from  fame  my  longing  view, 
And  plunge  again  amid  my  native  night? 

Hard  is  the  pang  that  rends  these  links  away, 
And  humbling  to  my  soul  to  rise  no  more; 
How  cruel  to  abandon  wisdom's  ray, 
And  find  my  hopes,  my  fame,  my  prospects  o'er. 


385 


Yes,  I  must  yield — but  slowly  I  retire; 
O  !  can  I  dim  the  light  that  science  gave? 
O!  can  I  quench  my  bosom's  ardent  fire? 
Welcome,  ye  paths!  that  lead  me  to  my  grave. 


ANACREONTICS. 
I. 

H  ytj  ft'.Xaita  vrivii.     Anac.  Od.  S-. 

EARTH  is  a  thirsty  drinker, 
The  trees  drink  from  its  bosom, 
The  ocean  drinks  the  wet  winds, 
The  fiery  sun  the  ocean, 
The  moon  drinks  in  the  sun's  light. 
Then  why,  my  friends,  be  angry, 
Because  I  love  to  drink  too. 

II. 

FULL  bosomed  maids  of  Chio — - 
Around  your  auburn  tresses 
The  woven  roses  twining, 
Now  sport  in  circling  dances. 
The  moon  is  on  the  ocean, 
The  light,  loose  clouds  around  her 
Their  fleecy  heaps  are  piling, 
And  gird  her  with  a  halo  : 
40 


386 

No  longer  from  the  billow 
The  fresh  sea-wind  is  stealing ; 
His  pinions  wet  with  night-dew, 
And  bathed  in  liquid  odours, 
He  slumbers  on  the  flower  bed, 
And  lies  till  morning  wake  him. 
Then  come  ye  maids  of  Chio — 
And  while  your  dark  eyes  sparkle; 
Full  eyes  of  living  brightness, 
Weave  in  your  mazy  dances 
The  flowery  chain  of  Ero, 
And  round  our  yielding  bosoms 
Its  rings  of  roses  linking, 
Give  us  those  glowing  kisses, 
That  drop  the  tempting  treasures 
Of  Aphrodite's  nectar. 

III. 

DEAR  girl  of  Mytilene — 

Thy  dark  locks  loosely  flowing, 

Thy  full,  round,  jet  eye  sparkling 

With  soul-subduing  glances, 

Thy  brown  cheek  flushed  and  glowing, 

Thy  lips,  like  opening  rose  buds 

Their  earliest  balm  exhaling, 

Thy  slender  hands  of  coral, 

Whose  light  and  fairy  fingers, 


387 


The  cittern  sweetly  tuning, 
Awake  the  song  of  Sappho, 
And  echo  "  lovely  Phaon ! 
Adored,  but  cruel  Phaon  !" 
Dear  girl  of  Mytilene — 
Beneath  the  bending  vine-bower, 
That  hangs  its  loaded  clusters 
Full-swoln  with  purple  nectar, 
And  o'er  the  vaulted  trellice 
Its  tendrils,  wildly  ramping, 
With  broad,  green  leaves  inwoven, 
Shut  out  the  star  and  moonlight — 
Dear  girl  of  Mytilene — 
As  in  that  secret  bower 
Thy  love-lorn  song  is  flowing, 
The  shepherd,  on  the  moss  bank, 
All  silvered  o'er  with  moonlight, 
Beside  a  dimpling  fountain, 
Shall  play  upon  his  tabret, 
Responsive  to  thy  echoes, 
The  dying  song  of  Sappho 
To  loved,  but  cruel  Phaon. 


HORATIAN. 

Quern  lu}  Melpomene,  semel. — Herat.  Od.  L.  IV.  3. 

FAIREST  of  all,  bright  Urania! 
Who,  on  Helicon's  top,  sing  to  the  golden  stars. 
When  night  draws  all  her  curtains  round, 
And  far  over  the  hills  shines  the  moon's  mellow  light; 
First  she  gilds  the  tall  mountain-top, 
Then  on   glittering  streams,   and  the  wide-spreading 

plain, 

And  the  dark  waves  of  the  tossing  sea, 
Pours  all  her  mellowest  beams,  till  earth  and  ocean 

smile — 

Fairest  of  all,  bright  Urania! 
Sing  to  thy  golden-stringed  lyre,  sing  the  sweet  song 

of  Heaven. 


COME  on  your  sky-blue  wings,  ye  Paphian  doves! 
And  o'er  me  drop  the  pure  Idalian  dews, 
Come,  fan  the  air  with  silken  pinions, 
Pluck  with  tender  bill  the  roses, 
While  they  open  in  the  thickets, 


PERCIVAL'S  POEMS.  389 

Heavy  with  the  tears  of  morning: 

Bear  them  on  the  faltering  breezes, 

As  they  waken  with  Aurora, 

Lightly  brushing  o'er  the  meadow, 

Kissing,  as  they  pass,  the  lilies; 

Sighing  through  the  silent  forest, 

Waking  from  their  nightly  slumbers, 

All  its  murmuring  tones  and  echoes; 

Floating  o'er  the  sleeping  ocean, 

When  without  a  wave  or  billow, 

Like  a  green  and  golden  mirror, 

In  the  morning  light  it  glows , 

Bear  these  nectar-breathing  blossoms, 

Hovering  round  on  rustling  pinions, 

Drop  them  on  my  mossy  pillow, 

Till  a  heap  of  crimson  sweetness 

Buries  in  its  down  my  head. 

O!  come,  ye  Paphian  doves!  from  Cyprus  come; 

Close,  o'er  the  smiling  queen  of  love  and  joy, 

Your  wavy  pinions,  that  a  canopy 

Of  living  sapphire,  gold  and  amethyst, 

Emerald  and  hyacinth  and  orient  pearl, 

Cool  tier  and  shield  her  in  its  moving  shade. 

The  Paphian  Goddess,  on  her  sea-born  car 

Of  polished  shell,  sails  lightly  on  the  wind: 

Before  her  chirp  the  bounding  sparrows, 

As  they  draw  the  lovely  burden 

With  a  trace  of  gauzy  film : 


390 

She  nearer  comes  and  sends  before 
Her  harbinger,  the  breath  of  roses, 
Sweeter  than  the  spicy  gales, 
That  blow  from  Araby,  the  blest; 
Where  resting  on  white  coffee-beds, 
Or  groves  of  frankincense  and  myrrh, 
They  drink  the  airs  of  Paradise; 
Sweeter  than  a  languid  zephyr, 
From  a  flowering  myrtle  thicket, 
Which,  beside  the  briny  billow, 
Sucks  the  essences  of  love, 
And  by  the  secret  arts  of  nature, 
To  the  most  refined  sweetness, 
Floating  in  a  cloud  of  ether, 
Turns  the  salt  and  bitter  wave. 
Drop  on  my  head  those  thrilling  dews, 
So  oft,  in  childhood's  tender  hours 
You  poured  in  kindling  showers  around 
But  no — my  brow  is  cold — 
Passion's  fire  is  spent — 
The  dews  no  sooner  touch  my  forehead. 
Than  they  freeze  to  crystal  drops, 
And  scornful  bound  away. 


391 


I  once  thought  of  writing1  a  Poem  in  the  irregular  measure  of  Thalaba, 
the  scene  to  be  laid  in  Peru,  among  the  Incas.  I  however  wrote 
only  the  following  morceaux. 


MAN  is  born  to  die, 
And  so  are  nations.     Thus  I  mused, 
As  on  the  Inca's  pyramid 
I  sat  and  gazed  around. 
Here,  methought,  a  royal  race, 
To  whom  a  nation  bowed, 
As  if  they  were  the  sons  of  Heaven, 
Came  and  paid  their  adoration 
To  the  all  o'er-seeing  Sun. 
And  where  is  now  that  royal  race? 
Gone,  and  mingled  with  the  ages, 
That  have  passed  away. 
Here  a  countless  multitude 
Of  self-made  slaves,  through  weary  years 
Toiled  and  built  this  stately  pile. 
Years  on  years  have  rolled  away, 
Since  they,  who  built  it,  lived. 
Still  it  rears  its  massy  front, 
And  stands  unmoved,  in  proud  defiance, 
'Gainst  the  scythe  of  time 
And  ruin's  crumbling  hand; 
While  the  same  winds  bleach  the  bones 


392 


Of  the  poor  slave,  that  toiled, 
And  the  great  king,  who  bade. 

'T  WAS  midnight — and  the  full  round  moon 

Was  riding  in  the  midway  Heaven, 

And  poured  her  faint,  but  spotless  light, 

Around  the  pillow,  where  he  lay. 

On  the  tender  grass,  and  half-shut  flower, 

That  closed  their  leaves  against  the  nightly  air, 

The  dews,  that  hung  in  falling  drops, 

Sparkled  with  a  feeble  ray. 

Sleep  poured  her  poppy  dews, 

And  spread  her  gauzy  mantle  o'er  him; 

Like  an  infant  in  its  cradle, 

There  in  innocence  he  lay, 

Unconscious  of  impending  harm. 

Sudden,  from  the  ground  he  starts, 

And  feels  it  rock  beneath  his  feet, 

And  like  the  ocean  roll. 

From  the  north,  a  growling  sound 

Rushes  on  his  ear. 

Louder — louder,  on  it  comes, 

Like  the  never-ending  din 

Of  some  wide  waterfall, 

That  in  the  desert  pours  its  ceaseless  flood ; 

Or  like  the  roar  of  ocean 

When  the  tempest  ra^es, 

And  on  a  reef  of  broken  rocks 


393 

The  billows  chafing,  bursting  foam ; 
Or  like  the  rush  of  myriad  horsemen. 
When  to  conflict  fierce  they  ride, 
And  'neath  the  thundering  tramp 
Quivers  the  embattled  plain. 
Never  ending,  still  increasing, 
On  it  comes,  and  now  beneath  him 
Bellows  like  the  groans  of  hell : 
Instant  to  the  ground  he  falls. 
And  long  entranced  is  lost. 

Hark !  the  volcan's  thunder 
Rolling  o'er  the  hills. 
As  at  midnight,  when  the  storm 
Rears  its  front  in  Heaven, 
And  sheds  a  thicker  darkness  o'er  the  gloom, 
Bursts  the  thunder-bolt, 
And  shakes  the  solid  ground: 
So  the  volcan's  thunder  rolls. 
See  the  lightning's  flash 
Quivering  in  the  sky — 
Long  red  streams  of  flaring  light 
Rise  and  lick  the  stars. 
From  the  crater's  mouth 
Rolls  the  fiery  flood  : 
Down  the  rocks  it  sweeps  its  way, 
And  the  ice  of  ages 
In  an  instant  melts, 

And  bursts  a  torrent  to  the  plains  below, 

50 


394 


Slower  rolls  the  fiery  flood — 

From  cliff  to  cliff  it  tumbles, 

And  like  the  mingled  roar  of  thousand  cataracts,, 

Deeper — deeper  strikes  the  ear. 

Hast  thou  seen  Niobe's  statue, 
Stand  in  speechless  agony, 
With  eye  upraised — and  clasped  hand, 
As  if  to  curse  the  bolt  of  Heaven  ? 
So  Atalpa  stood. 

THE  night  draws  on, 

And  closer  o'er  the  wave 

Her  sombre  curtain  spreads. 

The  dark-blue  Heaven  swells  o'er  the  sea 

And  rests  its  pillars  on  the  tossing  deep. 

The  star  of  evening, 

Has  lit  its  lamp, 

And  hanging  o'er  the  western  wave, 

Sparkles  upon  the  foam  below. 

How  calmly  steal  the  winds  along  the  mainy 

And  heave  the  water  round  the  cleaving  prow. 

The  sail  swells  lightly  overhead, 

And  the  streamer  scarcely  flutters;  all  is  still, 

But  the  petrel  as  he  circles  round, 

And  skims  the  wave  with  snowy  wing. 

'T  is  midnight — and  the  moon 
Has  lit  her  lamp  in  Heaven. 


395 

Around  her  silver  throne 

The  twinkling  stars  grow  pale. 

So  bright  she  pours  her  beams. 

Below  her,  o'er  the  sea, 

Spread  like  a  floor  of  glass 

Unruffled  by  the  winds, 

Her  image  travels  on. 

As  the  mariner  looks  at  the  wake  of  the  ship, 

He  sees  a  long  track  of  light  behind, 

And  the  sparkling  foam  a  world  of  gems. 

I  hear  the  voice  of  mirth, 

The  song  of  love,  and  the  flute's  soft  note 

Floating  o'er  the  wave. 

A  white  sail  steers  its  course  against  the  moon3 

And  seems  a  sheet  of  snow. 

Beneath  its  shade  the  music  breathes — 

'Tis  the  ship  of  joy  that  sails. 

Streamers  of  silk  wave  on  the  topmast 

Shining  with  purple  and  gold. 

So  light  the  west  wind  blows — 

The  sails  flap  and  the  cordage  creaks  j 

While  moving  to  the  sound  of  flutes 

The  long  white  oars  in  order  strike 

And  cut  the  marble  main. 

The  morn  is  young  in  Heaven, 

And  the  light  is  spread  over  the  mountains; 

The  sky  is  blue  above, 


396 


And  the  earth  is  green  below; 

The  mist  rolls  over  the  rocks, 

And  curls  its  light  folds  in  the  valley; 

The  grass  is  wet  with  dew, 

A  gem  is  on  every  twinkling  blade ; 

The  song  of  the  birds  has  awaked  the  sleeper, 

And  he  starts  on  his  journey  anew. 


FINIS, 


ERRATA. 

Page  28  line  18  for  cluster  read  clusters. 

—  60  —  II,  for  day  read  days. 

—  56  —  18,  for  bear  read  bare. 

—  71  —  23,  for  mortal  read  moral. 

—  79  —  23,  after  shepherdess  a  comma. 

—  100  —  1,  for  have  betn  sung  o/oW,read  havebem  sung  t  of  old 

—  104  —  10,  for  fountain's  read  fountains. 

—  Ill  —  8,  for  Pynx  read  Pnyx. 

—  134  —  20,  for  has  read  hast. 

—  141  —  7,  at  the  end  a  comma. 

—  146  —  16,  for  bean  read  beam. 

—  159  —  18,  for  hardened  read  harden. 

—  160  —  1,  for  was  calm  read  was  the  calm. 

—  162  —  7,  for  not  hare  read  not  to  have. 

—  185  —  13,  for  The  read  She. 

—  197  —  1,  for  glory's  effulgence  read  glory' 3  full  effutgencc 

—  228  —  3,  for  0/read  Or. 

—  239  —  9,  for  air  read  all. 

—  254  —  1,  for  form  read/roro. 

—  265  —  23  for  light  read  life. 

—  285  —  11  for  barbed  read  bared. 

—  362  —  12  for  silver  read  silvers. 
T~  892  — *  7  for/otofr  read  ftowtrs. 


396 


And  the  earth  is  green  below; 

The  mist  rolls  over  the  rocks, 

And  curls  its  light  folds  in  the  valley; 

The  grass  is  wet  with  dew, 

A  gem  is  on  every  twinkling  blade ; 

The  song  of  the  birds  has  awaked  the  sleeper, 

And  he  starts  on  his  journey  anew. 


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r>AY  USE 


RFTURNTO  DESK  FROM 


RROWED 


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CIRCLTLATEON 


LIBRARY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWS 

LOAN  DEPT. 


LIBRA 


YUSE 


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b4 


LD  62A-20m-9,'63 
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General  Library 

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